Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon Scotland Yard 4
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: A year ago a new killer stalked the East End. Baffling the Yard at every turn he left five dead. Shaken by their inability to capture him, the Yard turned to Doctor Watson. A new body turns up with the same trademarks. Can a very ill Watson prevail?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes:** Out of all of the stories in this series, this one is going to be the most mysterious, and is not only going to highlight Watson as a multifaceted person, but as an investigator as well. I know in the past two installments he has not had a lot of opportunity to just be a Yard member in good standing, but I daresay in this installment he will make up for the last two! As a matter of fact the entire Inspector contingent will need to help him before we are done!

I've decided to stretch my legs a bit with the vernacular, so if there is a turn of phrase you do not recognize check the bottom of the page. I might have explained it already. If not, feel free to ask me.

I've always wanted to write a good serial killer story, this is my chance!

I hope you guys enjoy the trip.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter One**

Lestrade was humming to himself as he made his way through the dark rain kissed streets in the only cab he could find in operation this early.

Having seen The Mikado twice now, Lestrade had to admit it was a cavalcade of catchy tunes. The one that stuck in his mind like a rusty harpoon was _A Wan'dring Minstrel I_, or some such. He was now humming it while he kept one eye on the drowsy driver, who was nodding his head in a suspicious manner.

The runner had arrived at the house earlier, rousing him and his wife from bed. He tried not to be beastly to the boy, but he was abrupt enough his wife felt he needed a slap on the back of the head, which she delivered with the utmost accuracy.

"He can't help he's gotta fetch you at an indecent hour, Giles, be nice," Clea said in a deceptively gentle tone. Her eyes flashed with peril of dinners served cold for the next month, which was a threat of a punishment he had endured more than once in the course of their matrimonial bliss.

Since she forbade he take his mood out on the lad, he silently vowed that Gregson, who had sent the summons, would suffer his ire.

**---**

He changed his plan later when he saw the tall Swede's face. The man was practically gray with shock.

**---**

He had arrived at the crime scene deep in London's East End; it was contained in an alleyway near the border of Aldgate and Whitechapel. The air had the taint of a tanner purveying their wares, open sewers somewhere in the fog, and overarching all, the deep bong of the bells in the steeple of St. Botolph's.

This area was in vicinity of the former late night Ripper prowling grounds of Mitre Square in Whitechapel, a fact trumpeted by one of the unwashed horde collecting on the fringe when he arrived. "Cor! Yu don think its bloody jack back makin tha rounds does ya?"

That brought to Lestrade's attention that there were too many constables milling around, causing a glut of bystanders and gawkers showing interest in the proceedings, some still rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

"Who's in charge here?" Lestrade bellowed to the lethargic Yarders, "this is a crime scene, not a bleeding show!"

He did not see any of the inspectors in range, so he grabbed the sleeve of the taciturn giant, Police Constable Reynolds. "Move those people along, Wyatt, they don't need to be here, and I leave you in charge of a proper cordon. Make sure we don't get any reporters through that line. Whatever this is, we don't want them blabbing."

Reynolds nodded. He was not a big talker, so he grabbed shoulders and gestured, using his size in the stead of authoritative dialogue.

Lestrade wondered what was causing this lack of focus among his peers. He was going to make sure there was some discipline over this.

He noticed something peculiar as he made his way to the alley mouth.

Bradstreet was comforting Hopkins, the younger man looked shaken to his core. Tobias Gregson was just beyond them gazing inside the narrow lane with a cigarette burned down to the ash in his fingers. He was standing with Chief Police Surgeon Georges St. Cloud, and the man was trying to compose himself, but failing at the task.

"Lestrade," Gregson grunted.

"What is going on?" Lestrade demanded without preamble, all thoughts to decorum lost to the queer mood that permeated his co-workers.

Gregson tossed the useless cigarette away. "We found a young girl, dead from strangulation less than an hour ago. Constable walking his beat checks this alleyway, there she is."

Lestrade felt confused. "I hate to appear callused but we have encountered young girls in such a sorry state before, I don't believe it justifies this level of involvement."

Gregson's haunted red-rimmed eyes met Lestrade's. "She was all done up, Giles, her hair was in ribbons, and she had a single tear drop of blood under her right eye."

Lestrade felt the world go gray for a moment. Gregson reached out to steady him, as if he had anticipated this reaction.

"Alister Eads is in Newgate. I saw him myself just the other day," he murmured shock tingeing his voice causing a tremor.

Gregson nodded. "Trust that I am well aware." He held up a well-crumpled note. "We just confirmed he is still in residence."

Lestrade turned to St. Cloud. "This cannot be the same killer. Tell me it isn't him, George."

St. Cloud clutched his bag to his chest, as if it was the last solid thing in his world. "It iz ze same killer, I am sure of eet."

Lestrade collapsed onto a discarded barrel. He removed his hat and ran a hand over his face; he knew his complexion had gone bone white. Gregson offered him a flask he been carrying concealed in his hand, lid long removed.

Lestrade accepted it, taking a swallow, even though he knew Tobias, so the contents were most likely vodka. He winced, as the vile fluid went down, and handed the flagon back.

"We need to call Doctor Watson, this is the reason we asked for his help after all," Lestrade insisted his voice raspy from the foul drink.

St. Cloud and Gregson exchanged a meaningful glance. "He is already here, for what good it will do," Gregson replied.

Lestrade gave the man a sharp look. "What do you mean by that?" he asked in a dangerous tone.

St. Cloud pulled out his handkerchief and was wiping his high forehead as he replied, "He iz very ill, inspector, a very zerious infection, zo he zed."

Lestrade closed his eyes.

_The wound in his side, he said infection was inevitable._

"How ill?" Lestrade inquired.

Gregson winced in sympathy. "He had to be helped out of the cab. As soon as we saw his condition, we tried to send him home, but the man has a will to humble Cromwell himself!"

"And a temper to shame Robespierre," interjected St. Cloud.

"We found out what the good Doctor was doing while travelling for the crown all those years. He cursed us in three different languages!" remarked Gregson with a fond grin.

St. Cloud chuckled. "I counted four; I believe that last one was Hindi. German, Zpanish, French and Hindi."

Gregson shook his head in disdain. "Five, you are forgetting English."

"I try to, everyday," St. Cloud replied with a cheeky leer.

"Anyway," Gregson replied, clearly changing the subject," the good Doctor is not going anywhere voluntarily. However, you are certainly welcome to make an attempt."

Lestrade had to smile a little at that. "A daunting task indeed, how did he get here in such a state? Who was helping him?"

Gregson peered into the alleyway. "Some scary little bloke had a Diogenes ident, spoke like a kiwi, names Algon Mayweather. He was there a moment ago, must have slipped out for a fag."

Lestrade stood, dusted his trousers off. Tipped his hat and went to find Doctor Watson. The other inspectors nodded as he passed.

He could not see Doctor Watson clearly in the dim ally light, bent over the body, steeped in shadow, even with the lanterns hung overhead to give him light.

Lestrade strode toward his friend, trying to think of some pronouncement that would change the man's mind, knowing afore the hopelessness of such an attempt.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed Lestrade out of the darkness and flipped him through the air, slamming him to the ground. He ceased struggling when he felt a sharp point against his neck.

He heard the Yarders began to reach for weapons to assist when a smooth accented voice called out above him. "You blokes might want to take note that this knife is pressed against his carotid artery, he'll bleed out in seconds. I have jellyfish venom on this knife, one nick and he will pray for death before it finds him, so let's all play nice."

A familiar but very weak voice, tinged with amusement called out. "Mayweather, do be careful with the inspector, on occasion I find him useful."

Even with the knife pressed to his neck, Lestrade shot a glare in the direction of the Doctor. "On occasion?" he protested.

The pressure came off, and he looked up to see a hand offered to help him up. The possessor of said hand was a small slight man with thick blond hair peeking out under his bowler, well-tanned skin with two of the emptiest brown eyes Lestrade had ever looked into.

"Sorry 'bout that mate, but you failed to announce yourself," he commented in an offhand manner as if all he had done was ask for Lestrade's credentials.

"I will endeavour to do so in the future." Lestrade replied after regaining his feet and waving off the attempts of the constabulary to check his heath.

He then saw Doctor Watson and it gave him pause.

The man still looked superficially like James Watson, but the strength and determination shining from the eyes in that pale countenance left little doubt to the identity. Watson had left his hat behind, his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat; he was trembling in spite of the layers of coat he wore. **(1)**

"Doctor, I must remind you, if you are suffering nausea, please do not vomit on the body and disturb evidence," Lestrade called in lieu of a greeting.

"Mayweather, go stalk something, preferably away, I am as safe as I am ever going to be," Watson informed the younger man in a tone just short of command.

Mayweather looked astonished. Then he faded into the shadows as Watson bid, laughing quietly to himself.

"So…Mayweather?" Lestrade began to query. "Later," Watson interrupted.

Doctor Watson looked up at Lestrade his feigned irritation made suspect by the lopsided grin. "It took you long enough to arrive, I have been fending off the Yarders seeing to my welfare more than I have been able to work."

"Do not think ill of them, Doctor, they have no concept of just how mulish your bent," Lestrade informed with a sly smile.

"Certes!" Watson agreed in a clipped tone.

Lestrade reigned in any thought to further conversation on the Doctor's comfort, in favour of a focus on the matter at hand.

"Tell me about her, John."

Watson looked relieved that he asked.

"She was early twenties, and not in the best of health. Her hands were formerly callused, but she had not worked in nearly a year. I believe she was a seamstress of some stripe from the handmade quality of her clothing. I am guessing that she was forced to make her own clothing, because she could not go out into polite society."

He held up a well-used napkin to Lestrade.

Lestrade gasped when he saw the mottled red stains. "She was a lunger?"

The anger in Watson's eyes caused Lestrade instinctively to step back a pace.

"She was a sufferer from Tuberculosis, she was ostracized and isolated and in constant pain in life, you will show her the proper decorum in death," Watson demanded.

Lestrade's first impulse was to apologize but that would be an insult to the relationship between him and Watson.

"You are absolutely correct, Doctor, and I apologize for being insensitive, but need I remind you that not all of us are of the medical profession, and find the disease in question quite terrifying. Her sad state moves my heart, but you need to reign in your temper, sir, or I will have you restrained, taken home and forcibly sedated until you are better, even if we have to knock you unconscious to do so!"

Watson smiled, looking very tired. "You are right, Lestrade. You have my apologies. I will attempt to keep the bullpup at bay."

Lestrade relinquished the conflict with a gentle nod. "If you will pardon my indiscreet outburst, please continue."

"She was chloroformed, and the strangulation was just sufficient enough to kill her in her weakened state, then the ribbon used for a tourniquet was loosed. Her killer appears to have seen this as a mercy killing; she suffered not a moment in the entire affair. All the preparations to the body were most likely post mortem; she has been dead for four hours is my estimate. I will know more after I compare this victim to the others."

Lestrade sighed. "That would have been at the height of the fog, this alley way empties out onto High Street, whoever this killer is, they were clever."

"You never told me how you captured Alister Eads, some stroke of good luck?" Watson asked his fever glinting eyes curious.

Lestrade lit a cigarette while he recalled. "There were allegations of theft from a local feed store left in the tip box; a couple of constables were assigned. During their vigil a cart passed by, and they followed thinking it was the thieves in question. They watched in shock as Alister unloaded the body of Bonny Livrâtes, a mother of four who was until tonight the last victim. He arranged the body into his trademark style, and they even caught him bleeding the teardrop onto her face. It was the perfect collar, ironclad; we never could have imagined it would end so easily. He came quietly, confessed to everything, and seemed eager to do so."

Lestrade tossed the cigarette away after two drags, stubbing it forcefully. "We celebrated for days," he remarked with the irony thick in his voice.

"And the feed store thieves?" Watson inquired.

Lestrade gave him an odd look. "Why would we care about some purloined feed after the capture of the Red Tear Strangler?"

Watson looked grave. "Because if the tip was not intended for the feed store thefts..."

The truth came crashing into Lestrade's mind with a weight that nearly took him to his knees.

"If the feed store theft tip was intended to lead us to Alister Eads, and that person knew where he would dump the body..."

"He had an accomplice," Watson finished.

* * *

**Story Notes: **

Lestrade and Watson have settled into quite an interesting relationship. We all have that friend who knows us well enough to give us space when we need it, and to call us on our behavior it if we need that as well. I think it is safe to say their friendship is quite different from Holmes and Watson, and I am having a lot of fun writing it.

**Some explanations I feel necessary:**

"Slipped out for a fag." Went to go smoke a cigarette.

"Spoke like a kiwi." A person of New Zealand heritage.

"Ripper" "Bloody Jack" Jack the Ripper who operated the streets of Whitechapel in 1888, nearly ten years before our series is set. The poor lower class especially viewed him with superstition and any murder that occurred was thought to be him returning. This alleyway was just a block or two over toward Aldgate which was a barrier between the City of London and the East End.

"Certes" is the Latin word for truth. It was used a lot from the Middle Ages and faded out in the mid twentieth. It just means, "You have spoken truth."

The infection that is afflicting Watson came from the wound he received from the assassin he fought off in the last installment. I changed the time line in the last chapter of the last installment to reflect a two night difference between the two stories.

The Yarders were under so much pressure to capture the Red Tear Strangler that they developed tunnel vision, so if the revelation at the end of the last chapter seems a bit obvious just remember this was at the tail end of a long arduous investigation in which they could not capture their quarry and they were just glad it was over that all else was ignored.

If I missed any thing...please ask!

**(1) **Picture in profile...check it out!

**Bart**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:** One thing I have gotten out of this experience of writing this series, is that character happens, relationships happen, magic happens when you start with the right concept.

I wish I could say I feel responsible for the wonderful alchemy that is happening between Lestrade and Watson. I would like to claim that I am entirely responsible, but sometimes I look at the written page with awe at the depth and richness of their interaction and I feel like I related an overheard conversation between two very close friends. Will that stop me from writing it? Nope I am having too much fun with these guys.

I think there is the specter of Sherlock Holmes all over this series, it never shows so much as in this chapter.

Have fun reading...I know I had a ball writing it!

**WARNING:** Watson is ill. Medical ickyness happens when someone is this sick, so you are forewarned. I don't feel it excessive though. I hope you agree.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Two**

Lestrade walked a step past Watson and the corpse of the young girl, not wanting his friend to see the sudden tears from the wave of emotion that crashed over him, the weight of all thirty-four years of Yard service catching up to him at once.

"This is my fault, John, this young girl died because of my incompetence and short-sightedness," he paused, and then continued voice thick with irony, "I guess Holmes was right after all."

Watson was too frail to get up so he reached out and gave Lestrade's trouser cuff a comforting tug.

"The pressure you must have been under, the ordeal of seeing all those women turning up and you could do nothing, suddenly he is in custody, literally red-handed and confessing? Let's not go all maudlin, shall we? You may not have saved this girl, but the killer is still out there, Giles, and I need the best inspector in Scotland Yard here with me. Holmes was not infallible, you know."

Lestrade turned hastily wiping his eyes, back to his friend, down on the ground. Too weak to stand, the insufferable fool was flashing his lopsided grin.

"You can crumple up like a weepy virgin maid on her wedding day after this case is done," Watson remarked with a wry cocked eyebrow.

"Are you quite done sitting down on the job?" Lestrade asked in his most tolerant tone.

Watson began packing his medical bag, "For the moment, help a chap up will you?"

He finished snapping it closed, reached out a hand to young girl. "We will find your killer, m'lady, this I vow."

"Here, here," Lestrade agreed, offering Watson his hand.

Pulled to his feet, the change of elevation proved to be too much for the ailing Watson. He stumbled, took two steps towards the wall, and retched, away from the body behind a discarded crate.

Mayweather appeared as quickly as he had vanished. Before Lestrade could move to offer aid, Mayweather grabbed the taller tottering Watson's arm so he would not fall, showing an abnormal amount of strength as he took Watson's entire weight without visible effort.

"Curious," Watson remarked after a few moments to regain his strength, "you would think actually having something on your stomach a prerequisite."

Lestrade glanced at Mayweather with the concerned eyes he would not show Watson. Mayweather cracked a tired smile with a slight shrug of the shoulder, letting Lestrade know this had been a common occurrence recently.

Watson's face flushed as Mayweather guided him past. "I will see you at the Yard," Watson said. Lestrade knew the man well enough to understand that the blush was one of embarrassment.

"Hold the cab; Doctor, and I will ride with you, if you don't mind tarrying a bit."

Watson nodded, and he and his escort continued by.

There were so many smells in this alleyway that Lestrade did not think Watson's sick would be noticeable, but to be certain, he moved the crate to conceal the small puddle. The man deserved his dignity.

He turned to see Watson talking quietly to Rollins at the alley mouth, his face carefully turned away so the young man would not catch his breath.

The young photographer, standing with his equipment looking uncharacteristically faint, nodded at the Doctor's words. Watson gave his shoulder a squeeze and gestured for Mayweather to help him on.

Lestrade nodded to the young man as he approached. "Is the light enough? Do we need more lanterns?"

Rollins shook his head. He turned to stare past the corridor. As he did so, the morning sun burst over the horizon behind a distant building passing right through the alley.

Lestrade turned with him back to the girl's body, he marvelled at how the new light framed her. There was a shadow of a cross from a distant steeple on her bodice, and the makeup on her face gave her the illusion of repose. In that fleeting instant, she was so ethereal and angelic he could find no words.

"I think the light is sufficient, inspector, but thank you for asking," Rollins remarked, sadness in his voice as he lugged his equipment by. "Tell Doctor Watson, I'll work all morning if that's what it takes, he will have the print in two hours if I can manage."

Lestrade felt for the young man who had seen so much at such a tender age, but as he set up his camera, the more familiar cool, efficient Rollins was coming back to the fore.

Lestrade knew that Harold Rollins grew up the youngest of twelve children to one of the most successful morticians in London. He had been around dead bodies all his life. Lestrade had seen the boy walk past vomiting Police Constables twice his age at a bad crime scene to take pictures without even turning pale. For some reason, maybe because of the beautiful subject, Harold was off his level today.

Lestrade gave a nod to the two constables on stretcher duty as he passed.

He saw Gregson and Bradstreet conferring with Hopkins and the burly Athelney Jones and was immediately suspicious.

He strolled up and heard them talking in hushed tones. "Who had Lestrade flipped? I did, but I didna say slammed. I said slammed but I left out the flipped part. Alright, I says tiebreaker goes to who had him with a knife to his throat."

"As it so happens, it looks like I won..." Hopkins trailed off, as he casually glanced over and saw a fuming Chief Inspector glowering at him, arms crossed.

They dispersed in a hurry leaving an bemused Gregson standing, his culpability clear with Hopkin's pad in one hand and the quid the other.

"You all knew that maniac was lying in wait, and you said nothing!" Lestrade hissed in low perilous voice.

Gregson shrugged. "We got bigger problems on our hands, Giles, there's vultures from both the Times and Mirror in that crowd over there. We need to give a statement or they'll put words in our mouths."

Lestrade put aside his thoughts of evil deeds long enough to scan the crowd in question.

"Trollop and Weems? They are the worst!" he grumbled. The squat bald headed man with the suspicious, beady eyes was waving for Lestrade's attention. Beside him, giving Giles her penetrating stare was the attractive brunette wearing the mannish suit watching his reactions with open calculation. She was the one he feared. "Benjamin Trollop, and Agatha Weems, can this day get any worse?"

Gregson winced.

The superstitious man did not like such pronouncements because he believed them challenges to the universe or some such rubbish.

"I told them that you would handle the press, which is in your realm, not mine," Gregson remarked with a sly smile.

Lestrade had a return of those evil thoughts.

Gregson did not normally acknowledge Lestrade's seniority unless it suited him. Here he was leaving his peer to the wolves. Lestrade was not about to be out manoeuvred.

"PC Reynolds."

"Yes...sir?"

"I want you to go over and give an interview to the press."

"Saying?"

"You'll think of something, I believe in you. No comment until we know more is the answer to every question."

"Yes...sir."

Gregson watched the lumbering giant shamble over to the two reporters. He slapped Lestrade on the back. "Excellent show, old bean, bully and salutations, Reynolds has not uttered a complete sentence in the six years I've known him."

Lestrade snorted. "Since I am evidently the acknowledged senior inspector, I am assigning you to tidy up."

Gregson grimaced.

Lestrade grabbed the pad and money. "I'll see that these are returned to the proper owner." He secreted the items in his coat, tipped his hat and headed to the waiting cab enjoying the sound of Gregson's groan of misery.

He nodded at a few familiar faces on the way to the hansom. He paused when he saw the older Baker Street Irregular known as Geezer, holding the leads.

This particular young cab driver nearly drove Lestrade to distraction few weeks back with his wild abandoned reinsmanship. But Lestrade saw the deep concern in the young fellow's eyes as he checked on his passengers, one in particular, so he climbed aboard with a certainty that this journey would be of a calmer sort.

Mayweather had Watson gently propped against the far side, where the man had miraculously fallen asleep, his fevered brow apparently soothed by the cool interior wall it was resting against.

Lestrade tapped the roof as soft as possible and the driver gigged the horses to a smooth trot.

"No need to be quiet, mate, he's out, not looking forward to the waking though," Mayweather commented. "I was once thrown into a pit with a Bengal cat in the altogether with just a knife for defence, and would gladly do that again before I'd wake yon doctor for his meds in tha middle of the night."

Lestrade detected a tiny bit of fondness to his humorous tone. He could see that a bond had already formed between the two men in the short interim.

"I must ask. Did Mycroft send you?" Lestrade inquired cautiously, knowing the man beside him, no matter how presently companionable, was still a perilous one.

One reason Lestrade did not pet strange dogs was that some seemingly domesticated animals were one stray thought away from tearing your hand off. He had a hunch Mayweather was like-minded.

Mayweather's response was a cold glare that caused Lestrade to check the location of his old Beau Adams revolver mentally. "How do you know that name, inspector?"

Lestrade showed his hands empty in a conciliatory gesture. "I have been involved with Diogenes affairs more than I wish to be as of late. I know just as much about their current situation as Doctor Watson, if you wish to check the validity of my claim, you are welcome to wake him and ask."

Lestrade saw Mayweather's eyes glance over to the sleeping gentlemen to his left, and repress a small shudder at disturbing the as of late temperamental man.

"I'll take your word. Mycroft did not ask it of me. I volunteered myself. I looked Doctor Watson up earlier this week; I like to scout first before I take on any task. When I asked around I found out he had mysteriously sent his home staff away with pay for the week, so I paid a call ta check, got no answer, tinkered the lock on the door and found the stubborn bastard passed out on his office floor. Called a doctor the Club uses, I've been following his scrips, and dealing with this cranky bloke ever since."

"Tinkered the lock?" Lestrade remarked, more to himself than Mayweather.

The younger man's eyes became as empty as a panther's Lestrade had once viewed at the zoological. "Are you wishing to make an issue of it?"

Lestrade shook his head in a most emphatic manner. There were times for bravery, this was not one of them.

Desiring to change the subject quickly, Lestrade asked, "If you were sent to protect Doctor Watson, then why did you let him leave his sick bed in this condition?" He knew the question was combative so he made sure to ask in his most placating tone.

Mayweather shrugged. "My oath requires I protect him from others, it does not tell me to protect him from his own foolish self. Besides, if I had told him no, he would have crawled the entire way if that's what it took. If you know him as well as you claim, then you know I am right."

Lestrade sighed. "You are most likely correct, indeed."

Mayweather reached out a hand to steady Watson as they made a particularly sharp turn. Lestrade sensed there was more to this young man's sudden attachment than he was saying. Even a sense of duty would explain nursing a man you have not met previously through severe illness. There were hidden depths here, Lestrade was certain of that fact, he was just too wary of the young man to pry over much.

The rest of the journey was a quiet one.

They arrived at the Yard; Mayweather gestured for Lestrade to wake the Doctor, moving swiftly out of the battle zone and onto the street with the sleekness of a cat.

Lestrade restrained an urge to call him a coward as he grumbled and steeled his resolve for the task ahead.

He reached out a gentle hand to Watson's shoulder.

"John, wake up old boy, we are arrived," he called with a nudge.

"Holmes?" Watson murmured, "Leave me alone, it's the middle of the bloody night." **(1)**

Lestrade felt a strange mixture of pity, and disappointment, but he suppressed it and ordered, "Language, Watson, you are representing the Yard."

Lestrade saw Watson's eyes crack open, readjusting to the light, the intolerable grouch growled, "You cretin, why did you let me sleep? We could have discussed the case on the way."

Lestrade rolled his eyes in irritation and offered the man his arm. "Do quit your mewling, we have work to do."

He helped Watson out of the cab, into Mayweather's waiting arms, and amused smirk.

Dangerous or not Lestrade made sure he shot the man his most scathing glower.

He stayed behind to pay the cabby, and to give the boy a request with an extra quid. The lad turned the money down, looking deeply offended. "Anything for tha' Doc, guv, you knows that."

He drove off leaving Lestrade feeling the ungrateful fool.

--

He made his way down to the Yard offices, hoping the Superintendant did not notice him. He would be fighting that battle soon enough.

The political implications of finding yet another possible victim of the Red Tear Strangler, while the man who they were certain was the killer stayed safely in the walls at Newgate, was Lestrade's worst nightmare come true. This was a career-ending situation, and Lestrade had little hope as to his prospects.

Beyond that, the Doctor's influence on him no doubt, was an overshadowing thought that there was a beautiful young girl who was alive last night, now on a slab in the basement, and a killer that needed capturing.

The offices were nearly deserted, but he heard a frantic voice talking to one of the night shift constables. "I don't care that it has not been a day, my daughter did not return home last night, she is very ill, she might have collapsed somewhere and is in need of aid! My wife and children have already been out looking. Please, sir, you must help us!"

Lestrade knew, call it instinct, or experience, or just cynicism of a life spent too long in the direst of circumstances, but he knew this was the father.

He made his way over.

The man was tall, very handsome with aristocratic bearing but middle class clothing, Lestrade also noticed with no small twisting of the knife in his guts that the man's daughter had his dark curly hair.

* * *

**Story Notes:** You will have to be patient on the Mayweather backstory, he will eventually come into sharper focus. However I am not insisting that he do so, that is one scary little bloke!

**(1)** Sleepy, sick, but still formidable! The picture is in the profile.

**Bart**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** Because of some sort of upload bug, I was unable to load any chapters over the weekend. Now that is fixed I have two ready to go.

This chapter has a lot of French because I am dealing with a lot of french speaking persons. I made sure there were translations and a history lesson on Huguenots in the margin at the bottom. That should help. I am trying to be accurate to the detail and the period plus add some details that have been scoped out and researched. If I missed something I'm sure someone will mention it soon enough LOL!

I really liked Lestrade in this chapter. Watson is a huge presence but I find this episode has taken on significance for Lestrade in particular. He is and was and will always be a honest, hardworking Yarder to the core, but he has an impishness about him, and a slyness that I have grown to love. That big chip he carries around on his shoulder is there as well!

I think Watson brings out the best in Lestrade I have seen him change from a politically minded position climber to a man who genuinely see's the victims and desires justice for them. Watson is a bad influence LOL!

So this story is for all of you guys that say you enjoy my Lestrade, I like the chap too so let's watch the old boy work.

**Bart**

Once again if you need translations they are at the bottom.

thanks!

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Three**

"Excuse me sir, may I be of assistance?" Lestrade inquired. This was not his first death notification and he knew from experience that informing parents that their children were murdered was the worst, so he steeled himself for the emotions to come.

The man turned to him. "I just want someone to listen to me."

Lestrade nodded for the harried constable to go on about his business, PC Turner gave him a nod of gratitude before making his escape.

With the man's full attention on him, Lestrade could see that the man was much older than he first appeared, of course that could be from watching his daughter eaten away from the inside by an incurable disease.

"Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade," he said, hand held out.

The man grasped it his long fingered hand strong like a vise, tired eyes shining with relief. Giles internally winced that he was about to end that hope. "Aldric Bisset, my daughter's name is Genevieve. We have to find her Chief Inspector, she's stricken with Tuberculosis, it's in the final stages."

Something in Lestrade's eyes queued Mister Bisset to his daughter's fate. "You found her?" He asked, his voice beginning to quaver.

Lestrade nodded, he was already manoeuvring the man to a convenient chair, just as he assumed, Bisset collapsed into it.

"How did she die?"

Lestrade gathered himself."She was murdered, sir, sometime late last night. It was quick and painless; she never felt a thing, so my best man tells me. I trust his word."

His distant confused eyes found Lestrade. "Why murder her, she was dying anyway, that would have been apparent?"

_That is a good question..._

"The investigation is in it's early stages, sir, we are still looking into the matter. Would you mind coming down to identify the body? It will save us some time."

He nodded, and stood to follow Lestrade, he wobbled just a moment, but then the natural dignity Lestrade had first seen in him reasserted, he squared his shoulders and met Lestrade's eyes with resolve. "Lead the way."

They made their way down into the depths of Scotland Yard, he could hear an argument before he reached the common room.

"There is no risk, no expulsion from the lungs means the disease is no longer an issue."

"I do not agree, zis disease is ztill a mystery, otherwise there would be a cure, were ze mask, dat iz an ordeur!"

"You wear the blasted thing if believe in it so much."

"Your immune zystem is compromised; you know zis, wear ze mask."

Lestrade cleared his throat as he entered to see Watson and St. Cloud standing toe to toe. Even in his weakened condition, the Doctor was not backing down from the larger man. Both were flushed with anger, St Cloud had the mask in question dangling in his hand.

"We have a visitor, gentlemen, Mister Aldric Bisset, I believe him to be the father," Lestrade informed them in a tone thick with warning.

_Get a hold on yourselves gentlemen, we are professionals of the Yard._

"Of course, right zis way," St. Cloud replied. Doctor Watson's weary eyes showed his depth of compassion for the man as Lestrade led him past. The other inspectors immediately found things to do so the man did not feel a spectacle.

They entered the largest dissection bay available. She was lying on the bier, looking just as fragile and heart wrenchingly angelic as before, even under the harsh gaslight.

"That is her. That is my Genny. Ma belle fille, qu'ont-ils fait pour vous?" **1.**

St. Cloud started when he heard his native tongue spoken. "Je suis très désolé pour votre perte. Vous êtes huguenote?" **2.**

Bisset met his gaze, the comfort he found in the language was clear.

"Oui, deux générations de distance." **3.**

Lestrade smiled. _I guess it's time to finally show my hand._

There had been multiple times over the years that St. Cloud spoke French in his presence thinking that Giles had no knowledge. He did not know that Lestrade's paternal grandparents never bothered to learn English, and Giles had never bothered to disabuse him of that erroneous notion.

'Je vous laisse parler. S'il vous plaît venez me trouver quand vous aurez franchi. Encore une fois, mes sympathies Mister Bisset," he remarked in a pitch perfect accent. **4.**

He nodded to the two men enjoying the look of complete shock on St. Cloud's face wishing the situation would allow him to be smug.

He exited to see that the activity he had left had come to a halt. Mayweather had somehow found the only corner out of the way, he saw with some satisfaction that Gregson had not returned.

Watson was sitting on the edge of a desk. "Was it his daughter?"

Lestrade nodded. "Genevieve Bisset, her family called her Genny."

"Genny," Watson mused.

One of the things that Lestrade admired most about his friend was that the man never saw a corpse, just a person's body, a distinction that not all willingly made. It was this determination to humanize and maintain dignity for the departed that gave him the edge over the other coroners, but it also meant that the deaths carried far more weight for the man. It took strength of character and will to refuse to become jaded by the sights a Yarder must endure, but even the strongest man must eventually become immured, for the sake of their own sanity.

They waited quietly for the two men to come out.

When they did exit, Bisset had red-rimmed eyes, and even St. Cloud had the air of sadness.

Watson moved to shake Bisset's hand, the gentleman sensing his inability to move to close the gap, walked forward and grasped the hand offered.

"I am sorry for your loss, Mister Bisset. Would you be so kind as to tell me about your daughter?"

Bisset smiled. "You are Doctor Watson, are you not?"

Watson looked a bit taken aback, but recovered graciously, "Yes I am."

The man nodded to himself. "Genevieve was a collector of the Strand magazine, she loved your stories, and she wept when your friend died. You have my sympathies as well, both for your friend, and your wife."

Watson acknowledged the man's kind words with a nod of his head. "I noticed your daughter's clothing had lace that was hand sewn, the quality was astonishing, she learned from her ancestry no doubt?"

A fond smile touched Bisset's lips as he nodded. "She had the cleverest fingers, even among a family of seamstresses and sewers. Her favourite things to sew were christening gowns for the little ones, even though she would never have..."

Bisset paused, attempting to regain his composure.

"If this is too hard for you, sir..." Watson began, the look on his face showing his own pain for the man's plight.

"No...no, I can do this, my daughter was brave, so must I be," he replied, squaring his shoulders.

"Her christening gowns were well known all over England, they were highly sought by the upper class," he continued, "we soaked them in a camphor, vinegar solution before washing, at Genny's insistence, no little one would ever be afflicted if she could prevent it."

He managed to smile at Watson."She would have insisted you wear that mask, by the way, small risk was still a risk to her, and we all wore them at her insistence."

Watson nodded. "I will do so, in her honour."

He nodded. "She never missed church; she sat as far back as she could, and stayed until her coughing became disruptive, all her friends abandoned her, but she never once blamed them."

His eyes flashed with a deep-seated anger, revealing that indeed he did.

"How did she catch, Mister Bisset," Watson asked.

"She volunteered in a charity ward, one of the elder patients suffered from it; she refused to leave her side, all the way til the ladies death. Her family abandoned her, but Genny would not."

Bradstreet stepped forward."Mister Bisset, I feel I must say the words of Christ into this moment, _Greater love hath no man, or woman, than this, that they lay down their life for a friend."_

Lestrade was grateful to the big Yarder. They all knew the man was devout in his Methodist faith but he never pressed until asked, somehow that made it more likely to turn to him in time of need.

Bisset smiled, with more than a hint of gratitude. "I must away, my family is still searching. Say a prayer for us."

They all nodded and the man left dignified even in his grief.

He left silence in his wake.

St. Cloud held out a camphor mask to Watson. He snatched from the man's hand with a glare to peel wallpaper.

---

Lestrade had his hands full with paper work, so he left the autopsy to Doctor Watson, and St. Cloud.

He located the file on the Red Tear Stranglings and reviewed the specifics. Hopkins entered; the young inspector was white as a sheet.

"You remember that new filing system I was implementing?"

Lestrade nodded.

With no preamble, Hopkins laid a stack of files on Lestrade's desk."These are all of the ligature strangulation murders in London that were committed with some sort of ribbon, all unsolved."

Lestrade looked at the stack of eight. "How did we miss this?"

Hopkins sat down heavily. "They were not all in one place, if you were not directly involved with the investigation you would not have known about them. These go back to inspectors no longer at the Yard. One was killed in the line, another transferred to the country for his health, two others retired, and the other one, was Patterson."

"Patterson?" Lestrade inquired, making sure he heard the name correctly.

Hopkins nodded. "Patterson."

When Sherlock Holmes went after Moriarty, he worked with one inspector, John Patterson. Most knew that the case was a death sentence. Moriarty's reach was vast, but Patterson stayed the course even after the death of Holmes. He used the information Holmes provided to dismantle the rest of the man's criminal empire before taking early retirement. They all visited him, and he stayed in touch, but since the death of his wife two years before that contact had become rare.

"So we are dealing with a man that may or may not have killed thirteen women?" Lestrade finished.

Hopkins nodded.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Glorious."

Mayweather appeared at the door. "Doctor Watson wanted you to know that he and St. Cloud agree that though the method is the same, he believes this latest murderer did not kill the previous victims."

"What makes him think that?" Lestrade demanded.

Mayweather's eyes narrowed for a moment that made Lestrade's heart skip a beat, then he shrugged."I guess you'll have to ask the bloke himself, he just thought you'd want to know as soon as possible."

"He was right, thank him for me," Lestrade said with a sigh. Mayweather nodded, then next moment he was gone.

Hopkins and Lestrade exchanged a look.

"So how do you like Watson's pet assassin?" Hopkins asked in the way of conversation.

"I like that John's protected, but who protects everyone else from his protector?" Lestrade mused.

He glanced up to see a constable at the door. The man had an internal memo in his hand. Lestrade had been anticipating this. He waved the man in.

The constable sensing his dark mood placed the memo on the desk and left as soon as he could manage.

Lestrade opened the letter. He read the quick note. Slapped it down on the desk, followed it quickly by his forehead.

Hopkins looked alarmed. "What's the matter, Giles?"

Lestrade shook his head, rubbing the new sore spot. "I need to talk to Doctor Watson first, gather all the men for a chat.

They got up and left his office, Lestrade crossing to the dissection bay, he did not have to enter as the door opened and a masked St. Cloud supported Watson who was removing his as they walked out.

"I need to know why you think this new murder is the work of someone else, please be brief." Lestrade inquired, making sure to keep his tone even when Watson glanced up.

Watson and St. Cloud exchanged a glance, the older man nodded for him to proceed.

"Two things," Watson began, "the strangulation was far too gentle. According to the coroner's notes on the other five, the larynx was either crushed or bruised. Secondly, he chloroformed her, and strangled her before she revived, that goes against this man's entire pathology. He enjoyed that they struggled, he took pleasure from their knowledge of their predicament. The person that murdered Genny wanted it to be painless. A killer like the one that killed those previous victims does not lose his nerve like this. He would have kept killing until death took him or capture."

Lestrade took that news in stride. "Looks like this war now has two fronts," he remarked.

He handed Watson the note and turned to the Yarders.

"Listen up. We now have two challenges ahead. We need to find this new killer, this accomplice in the next few days. Alister Eads was due to be hanged at the end of this week, that no longer looks likely."

He paused for effect.

"As a matter of fact we now have reason to believe that Eads killed thirteen women instead of five before he was caught."

There was a murmur as the men expressed their shock.

He glanced at Watson to see his friend had sat on the edge of the desk and was rereading the note. He turned back to the assemblage.

"The really interesting news is that there is a group of powerful men and women, ones with connections high up in government who are now calling for Alister's immediate release. They want to study him for some ungodly reasoning, I know not."

He heard Watson stand, quite a feat in his condition. He turned to see the man had a look of steely resolve on his wane face.

"Alister Eads, will make that appointment…" he announced with a certainty that dared contestation.**(2)**

The rest of the Yarders agreed loudly.

Lestrade saw a smile touch Watson's lips, one that mirrored his own.

_Scotland Yard has just declared war. _

* * *

**Story Notes:**

**(2)** Picture is in profile!

**Inspector Patterson** is the Yarder who Holmes built the case against Moriarty and his gang with, but the man never appeared before or again. He was basically a prop for the Final Problem...maybe because Doyle liked Lestrade too much to risk his health? Who knows?

**Translations for French:****  
1.** "That is her. That is my Genny. Ma belle fille, qu'ont-ils fait pour vous?"  
**Translation:** "That is her. That is my Genny. My beautiful girl, what have they done to you? "  
**2. **"Je suis très désolé pour votre perte. Vous êtes huguenote?"  
**Translation:** "I am very sorry for your loss. You are Huguenot?"  
**3. **"Oui, deux générations de distance."  
**Translation:** "Yes, two generations away."  
**4. **'Je vous laisse parler. S'il vous plaît venez me trouver quand vous aurez franchi. Encore une fois, mes sympathies Mister Bisset,"  
**Translation:** 'I let you speak. Please come and find me when you are through. Again, my sympathies Mister Bisset "

**Explanation of Huguenot: **The **Huguenots** were members of the ProtestantReformed Church of France (or French Calvinists) from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. They escaped widespread persecution in France and fled to countries all over the world. There was a large contingent of them that settled in the East End of London in Shoreditch were they established weaving mills and became part of local government.

**Bart**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:** This is a very short chapter but it moves the plot and suspense along so beautifully that I felt it deserved its own moment. This chapter started all sorts of different places but then it became yet another treatise on just what a tough bastard John Watson is on it's own. I debated leaving it this short, but I saw some personality developments and a killer of an ending line and I said...here is chapter four!

I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.

This installment is going beyond five chapters folks!

**Bart **

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Four**

If there was ever a time for barking orders, this was the moment.

"We need to divide our strength," Lestrade began,"this accomplice had to have passed someone last night, this is the East Side, she never truly sleeps."

Hopkins raised his hand. "We could canvas the neighbourhood that she would have travelled, if Mister Bisset would not mind giving us her normal itinerary."

Lestrade agreed with a curt nod. "There are two constables who walk the beat around Whitechapel who would know anyone up at that hour."

He handed Hopkins the notepad and his winnings. "Say hello to Tommy and Bobby for me," he said with a smile that hinted of evil deeds yet to come.

Lestrade heard Gregson galumphing in behind him, grumbling to himself in Swedish. "Take Gregson with you," he ordered.

Hopkins nodded with a weary sigh. Lestrade heard him inform Tobias of their task. "Now hold on a minute, Giles!" the man bellowed.

Lestrade turned to give him a tolerant stare. The man shot him a glower of the vilest nature before he followed Hopkins out.

"What did those two do to earn your ire?" Watson murmured.

"They bet on what Mayweather would do, when I approached."

"Serves them right, then," Watson remarked with a wry smile, "they did not ask me to join the book."

Lestrade gave the impertinent man a venomous look, but Watson was, as always, immune.

He turned to address the remaining men. "Bradstreet you and Jones need to go find John Patterson for me, see if he'll make a visit to the Yard, there's a file on my desk of a case that he investigated, and it may be another Eads victim. See if he recalls it; tell him I need his help."

Bradstreet nodded and Jones followed him out like a tall, strapping shadow.

"I need to meet Alister Eads," Watson remarked, breaking the silence.

Lestrade startled. "Dearest Lord Jesus, John, why?"

His ailing friend showed him a stack of pictures he had in his hand. From the short distance, Lestrade could see that they were Rollins's photographs of the confirmed Eads crime scenes.

"I need to see what message he was trying to convey. What was his twisted purpose for posing them this way, the symbolism? If I can separate his madness from the work of his accomplice, then I will be a step closer to finding the man," Watson concluded. There was a challenge in his eyes that informed Lestrade he was in for a fight if he refused.

Lestrade knew it was a losing proposition, but tried to dissuade the man regardless."I would not wish a healthy man to engage Alister Eads, he is cunning as a wolf, and is the most evil man I've ever met. He's tied me up in knots just interviewing him."

Watson sat there patiently. He cocked one eyebrow at Lestrade as if to ask if he was finished. The two tested their wills in a silent stare down, finally Lestrade sighed with exhausted resignation.

"Very well, you stubborn bastard," he acquiesced, fuming.

Watson smiled. "You are such a kind friend, Giles."

Doctor Watson stood gingerly, placing a hand on the desk in support. "Before we leave, I need a volunteer, someone who has no compunctions about causing me pain."

St. Cloud waved a hand. "Zis doez not zound disagreeable to me."

Watson smirked. "Why am I not surprised?"

Mayweather helped him back into a sterile, scrubbed, empty dissection bay, wordlessly bringing his medical bag; a ritual, he and Watson had evidently enacted before.

"You want me to change the drezzing, no?" St. Cloud inquired.

Watson nodded, showing the angry determination that he demonstrated when he was about to put himself in pain. It was almost as if he dealt with discomfort by attempting to cow it with his fury.

He sat on the low steel bier, and with a little help from Lestrade removed the apron, and his shirt and tie revealing the bandages swathing his chest.

St. Cloud glanced up for permission, and borrowed Watson's surgical scissors out of his bag to cut the bandages loose.

"Hold his left arm, mate, I'll hold his right," Mayweather instructed, "Make sure he does not move."

Watson winced as, with resignation, he gave Mayweather the arm indicated. Lestrade took the other arm as St. Cloud began to peel the bandage away.

Mayweather took a bit of folded cotton cloth out of Watson's bag and placed it in the man's mouth, giving him something to bite down on for the pain to come.

It was just in time as St. Cloud got to the wound. Watson hissed and winced.

"Very little zepesiz, negligible necropziz. Ze ztichez are very nize. Who did zem?" St. Cloud called out as he worked.

"He did them himself, I was there." Lestrade remarked.

St Cloud glanced up at Watson, there was a naked admiration that looked alien on his face."Very nize work, Doctuer."

Watson managed to nod.

"Zis is were it becomez uncomfortabule." St Cloud remarked, he pulled out a bottle of Surgical Spirits. He poured them onto a pad and began to clean the wound. Watson was obviously in extreme pain, his entire body rigid, his tendons and muscles standing out in relief, even then, he barely moaned, he just looked extremely irritated.

The torture was over in minutes, but felt longer to Lestrade. St. Cloud put the pad against the wound and began to wrap the bandages necessary to keep it in place. Watson slumped in relief.

Lestrade let go of his arm, feeling stiff from his own empathetic stress. After a few moments of letting Watson gather himself, he asked, "Are you well enough to continue, Doctor?"

Watson gave him a disgusted look rather than an answer, shrugging back into his shirt with a series of winces.

St. Cloud and Lestrade exchanged a gaze, one of the first times the two men had actually made eye contact in all their years working together, St. Cloud shook his head in disdain at Watson's obstinacy, but the look in his eyes bespoke if a growing fondness for his patient.

_Earning the respect of his enemies as well as his friends._

The words came back to Lestrade like a distant peel of a steeple bell. Collins was right; Watson collected people by just being himself. He made no special effort to impress or cajole, he was simply the genuine article and even an egotistical sod like could see that.

"I will zee to ze writing of the notes on Missus Bisset," St. Cloud volunteered, "good luck."

Watson was sliding into the coat that Mayweather held out to him like a valet, he acknowledged his assent with a nod.

He slid off the table, starting for the door, stumbling when a sudden burst of weakness overtook him.

Lestrade managed to grab an arm. "Do try to keep your feet, Doctor, I do not enjoy the thought of squiring you around Newgate Street, people will begin to talk."

Watson scoffed, "That you would be so lucky."

**--- **

The very sight of Newgate has always been enough to make Lestrade stifle a shudder.

They disembarked in front of the towering stone structure, with its Gothic spires and high tower walls. There seemed to be a hum of conversation around it at all times, either from the prisoners above, or the spectators and pedestrians beneath, Lestrade never bothered to find out.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, a word?"

Lestrade tensed at the sound of that oh so cultured and reasonable voice.

He, Watson and Mayweather turned to see Agatha Weems making her way through the crowd.

"Very clever ploy, Inspector, PC Reynolds is quite the raconteur," she remarked as she crossed the common, "the most I could wheedle out of him was, _not at this time_, I considered it an achievement to get that much."

Lestrade turned to Watson, catching Mayweather's warning glance.

"Doctor John Watson, Miss Agatha Weems, reporter for the Times," he stated in way of introduction. Watson did not offer her his hand, a shocking breach of protocol for him, to be sure.

"We have met," he informed with a hint of anger.

Agatha did not show any sign of offense at his snub. "Doctor Watson and I are old friends, aren't we John?"

"You will address me as Doctor, or Watson, only my friends may call me John," Watson remarked, his shoulders stiff with resentment. **(4)**

"As I recall, did not Holmes refer to you as Watson? Does that mean you two were not the best of friends?" she needled pulling her always-present pad out, her poison pen at the ready.

Watson suddenly slumped; Mayweather steadied him and kept him upright.

"If you don't mind, Agatha, we need to get inside while his strength lasts," Lestrade said as Mayweather gave him a nod of agreement.

A suddenly concerned Agatha reached out and pressed her hand gently to Watson's forehead. "He's burning with fever, what is he doing out of bed, Giles?"

Mayweather was watching Agatha carefully, Lestrade was amazed he had let her touch Watson without some move to intercept, clearly acquiescing to move proceedings along.

"I'm afraid he is not willing to be on the sidelines in this affair, even if it is the wisest course." Lestrade remarked with a wry smile.

Watson glared at them both."I am standing here within earshot."

Agatha suddenly remembered she was a reporter. She turned to Mayweather. "We have not been introduced.

Mayweather guided Watson toward the building, "No we have not, you should get used to the disappointment," he called over his shoulder.

She smiled at that pronouncement.

Agatha returned to Lestrade. "I knew you would show up here sooner or later. Alister Eads is due to be hanged later on this week, suddenly the entire contingent of Central Met inspectors and the top Police Surgeon show up at an alleyway in known Eads stomping grounds. The group who have been paying for Eads's defence rushed into activity this morning filing for an immediate hearing, I can draw my conclusions."

"Trollop?"

"Still in the dark, he thinks it's a new serial starting up," she replied with no small satisfaction.

Lestrade knew that Agatha was relentless, and she was far too sharp for his liking, but then again he was up against the nobility, he needed every resource he could bring to bear. At present, he had no information about this mysterious group pushing for Eads's release, information Agatha clearly had access too.

"I propose a trade." Lestrade remarked, making his way to catch up with Doctor Watson and Mayweather.

She kept stride. "I am listening."

"Your information about the group defending Eads, for the chance to meet the man himself, then you can decide if he should be released, or if you want to help me make sure he swings later this week."

Agatha held out a delicate hand. "We have an accord, thank you, Giles."

Lestrade grasped her hand, making sure she saw his eyes. "Thank me after you've had your first nightmare."

* * *

**Story Notes:** Surgical Spirits is what we know as rubbing alcohol...in other words...OUCH!

I think this shows a turn in St. Cloud's relationship with Watson,when you consider were they started!

Before it is done Lestrade is going to need all of his considerable knowledge of the inner workings of London's middle and working class. The nobility have all the power and prestige...but there are far more persons in the classes beneath and Giles Lestrade knows them all. He might not come out of this with his career in tact however.

keep reading!

**(4)** If you love that pissed off Watson, check out this profile photo!

**Bart**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes:** Alister Eads is one of the hardest characters I have ever written. I wrestled with him for days. There is a part of me that just did not want to go to that place. Well I went there for the sake of this story but I have to say up front...pay close attention:

**ALISTER EADS IS A MADMAN, I DO NOT AGREE WITH ANYTHING HE SAYS...THESE ARE NOT MY OPINIONS!**

I hope that warning is taken to heart. That being said Lestrade and Watson are really endearing themselves to me, and I discovered a character I never saw coming, but who really made this chapter worth writing.

**Proceed with Caution!!! You have been warned. **

Thanks for reading!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Five**

They made their way through the prison checkpoints, for a courtesy visit to the administrator, Alonzo Skinner.

While there, Lestrade heard a strange chattering noise. He realized it was Watson's teeth.

The man was obviously chilled, but refusing to draw attention to his discomfort.

Lestrade took off his over coat and offered it to him. "Take the damn coat, John; we won't be able to hear the interview over that incessant noise."

Agatha looked positively scandalized at his rudeness, while Mayweather looked amused.

Watson's cheeks flushed when he realized that someone noticed his condition. He took the over coat out of Lestrade's hands with more irritation than gratitude, and struggled into it with Mayweather's help.

"You are most welcome," Lestrade remarked in the face of his friend's impotent vehemence.

Lestrade leaned in to get out of Agatha's hearing. "I swear, John, if you don't start being more forthcoming and cooperative about your situation, friendship or not, case or no, we will reach an impasse. Do not force me to pull rank because I will not risk your health for any reason...Any... reason. Do we understand each other?"

Watson's shoulders slumped as he gave Lestrade a sheepish nod. Lestrade was happy to see the coat had diminished Watson's tremors noticeably.

Lestrade placed a hand on Watson's shoulder giving it a small squeeze; just enough to communicate that in spite of his necessary harsh words, he had his friend's best interest at heart.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, and company, sorry I was delayed."

They looked up as the rotund Administrator strolled in. Lestrade had met the man four times before and was always curious about how a man so seemingly out of shape moved with such easy speed.

"That's okay, Lon, I know you are a busy man," Lestrade assured.

Lon shrugged, "It is hanging season after all, so many necks so little time," he lamented.

He held a hand out to Agatha, "Miss Weems, we are not due for another expose' on our mistreatment of the poor underprivileged criminals for a few months yet by my reckoning, to what do I owe this displeasure?"

She accepted the hand returning the warm smile that she was receiving. "I'm just here to observe today, Lon, if you would stop mistreating criminals you would never see me at all."

He acted thoughtful. "That is an attractive offer indeed; too bad we enjoy our abuses so much."

"Ah, Doctor Watson, good to see you, what has it been, four years?" he asked holding a hand out with only a slight wince to show he noted Watson's pallor. Watson shook the hand offered. "I trust Holmes's efforts on your behalf have not been in vain?"

Lon smiled. "No one has escaped since."

He turned back to Lestrade, "I am assuming you need to have a chat with our boy?"

Lestrade nodded. "Unfortunately."

"You seem to be well acquainted with him," Watson remarked wrapping Lestrade's coat more securely.

Lon sunk into his chair. "Oh yes, good Mister Eads, a fine addition to our family to say the least. We've kept him in a separate cell away from the population for the duration of his stay, and keep his guards rotated. That has been a challenge."

"Because of threats to his life?" Agatha asked.

Lon's smile faded, his eyes showing strain. "Oh no, would that were the problem, the reason for the extra measures, we feared he might develop a following."

**--- **

He insisted on walking them down, talking to them about his "guest" as they walked through the many checkpoints. "Alister is one of the most singular examples of the criminal mind I have ever come across," he explained nodding to the two guards locking Lestrade and Watson's, pistols in a drawer, the latter which was handed over by Mayweather with no protest, which Lestrade found suspicious.

"How so?" Watson asked

Lon was silent as if clarifying his thinking in his own mind. "You will have to see for yourself, I doubt I can explain it properly.

They walked through a corridor; escorted by two large prison guards who would rake their truncheon across the bars of any resident who dared comment.

Through a thick iron door opened by one last burly was the prison's deathwatch wing.

Lon stopped. "I have other duties that require my attention," he sneered at Agatha, "civil rights to violate, you know how it is, but let me leave you with this. I know there is a movement to get Eads released, if you do not find a way to prevent this, there will be more blood spilled. I say that with all confidence."

He left them to follow a solemn security guard into the prison's dark heart.

They walked to a door in the interior. The guard gave it a bang with his baton.

"Yes?"

"Vistors."

"By all means, Ronald, bid them enter."

The voice was calm and pleasant, with a hint musicality that was hard to express.

The guard turned a large key and pulled the bolt back, indicating for them to go in.

The room, surprisingly well furnished with a bookshelf heavy with tomes, a desk by the window, and a tightly made bed off to the side, was actually cheery in its own way. It had a lived in feel that was dare Lestrade say, cosy.

Alister sat at the desk with his back to them, working at a task. He was a slight little man with coppery brown hair, the sunlight shone off of the lenses of his glasses as he turned a little to the side to call over his shoulder, "I'll be right with you, Chief Inspector," he remarked in that eminently even tone.

"How did you know it was me?" Lestrade inquired.

Alister's shrug was apparent from the back. "Whom else would it be? Miss Weems, I enjoyed your last Newgate expose, too bad I will not be around much longer. We might have collaborated. I'm sure Doctor Watson there is not happy to be in your presence after that series of articles about why this city does not need Sherlock Holmes, oh and that lovely article about his wife's passing."

He pointed a long slender finger to a thick volume he kept near his desk. "I have all the clippings saved. You are one of the few exceptions to the rule."

Agatha looked taken aback."What rule is that?"

He turned in his seat. He had a delicate little paper folded bird in his hands. He stood and placed it carefully with the menagerie of paper animals he kept on his window seal. He turned it so it could catch the best light.

The man was neat and fastidious to a fault, his hair carefully combed, his cheeks without even a hint of stubble.

"So, what shall we discuss?" he asked.

He was as always, reasonable, courteous and open. Lestrade once again found himself wanting to like the young man. That was the real struggle with Alister Eads.

With most criminals, there was an odious factor, some character flaw to alert you to the fact that this was not a person to trust, not so with Alister, Lestrade could not point out a way that the man was insane, which always made his skin crawl.

Here stood a man who, with those same neat hands, tightened the tourniquet around the necks of his victims watching their death throes, then prettied them up, dumped their bodies where they it would be found by a constable of the watch after dripping his own blood onto their cheek.

There was no need for speculation, he would gladly inform you of it, and all you had to do was ask. Somehow, even with the knowledge of his deeds, he remained likeable.

Should not someone you know to have committed evil deeds be a foaming at the mouth mad man? Did it defy some inherent law in the very fabric of things for a man to be a mass murderer, and still draw you in with a sweet nature? It was easy to say that any encounter with Alister left a man questioning the very nature of humanity, or evil itself.

Alister suddenly looked concerned; he slid his chair over to Doctor Watson. "Dear man, you look dreadful, please sit down before you faint."

Lestrade could tell that Watson wanted to turn down the offer, but Mayweather gently guided him to comply with a hand on his shoulder.

As he settled in, Eads turned to Lestrade. "Why would you let a man this ill leave his sickbed?" he demanded.

Lestrade started to explain the situation, but then caught himself, this man was a killer, and he did not deserve clarification. "The more cooperative you are in helping us catch your accomplice, Alister, the sooner he can return to Doctor's care."

Eads nodded, sitting on his bed. "By all means ask your questions; far be it from me to let a fellow man suffer long."

"You make a distinction?" Watson inquired his curiosity etched on his drained features.

Alister blinked. "What sort of distinction?"

"Between your victims suffering and my own," Watson explained.

Alister eyed him curiously. "Of course I do, they were female."

Agatha started, but Lestrade admired her instincts as she settled back into silent watchfulness with Mayweather against the wall. There were times to debate a point and others were you let the madness reveal itself.

Alister turned to Lestrade. "You never mentioned our conversations to him?"

Lestrade shrugged. "They were private as far as I was concerned."

Alister shook his head with disappointment, but his smile was fond, as if he were a schoolteacher with a particularly dense but promising student.

"Giles, I thought we had a breakthrough last time."

"Apparently not," Lestrade admitted.

"Please, I would like to understand," Watson cajoled his face earnest.

Alister looked as if he were heading down a well tread path in his mind.

"It is all so very simple, I was at a meeting of the friends, I'm a Quaker you know, others were testifying while I was studying my bible. I suddenly realized that I was spoken to in a voice that seemed audible to my ears but, it was a message for me alone, no one else heard it."

He paused for affect. "It showed me _The Pattern_. It started with Adam. Adam was weak so God as a punishment diminished him but removing a rib and placing a thorn in his side in it's place, he called her Eve."

Watson concealed his distaste and nudged. "And the pattern was?"

"Why the downfall and weakening of mankind every since," Alister put forth, his excitement palpable. "Eve was the true forbidden fruit. The pattern is, a man becomes great, a woman comes in, and that man fails. Women are the progenitors of the fall!"

He picked up his bible from his desk top.

"Adam and Eve, Noah and his wife, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebeckah, Jacob and Rachael, Samson, Delilah, David and Bathsheba, King Ahab and Jezebel...great men who were diminished by the taint of the feminine," he concluded with a flourish similar to a magician as he laid the book back down. "Do you want some recent examples? Louise xvi and Marie Antoinette, Napoleon and Josephine, and that's just from France!"

He showed all of the fervour of a minister as he finished. "The voice showed me the way, all I have done, is try to show that to others. I tried to show them the weakness and fragility of them, the disposable nature; they are just as pretty dead as they were alive. I have been preaching a sermon for the world to see through their useless bodies. I will continue until mankind gets the message that was revealed to me."

Watson looked even paler than before, but his jaw clenched in determination. "What does the red tear signify?"

Alister smiled. "Oh it is the detail that I leave open for interpretation, let all mankind debate it's meaning, which generates discussion, I'll take the truth of it to my grave."

Watson pulled himself to his feet. "I have learned all I need to learn from this vermin, I can stand his presence no longer."

Lestrade reached out a steadying hand, wondering where Mayweather had gotten.

Agatha was banging on the door, wanting to leave as soon as they could manage.

"Don't you want to hear about my accomplice?" Alister called as he stood with confusion tinting his voice.

"If it involves hearing more of your bile, frankly, no," Watson replied as he took Lestrade's arm.

"You of all people should understand, John," Alister replied, "you have been damaged by the feebleness of a female. You poured love into one who just could not last. It was a waste, admit it to yourself, eschew further contact with the feminine filth, and return to humanity."

Even though Watson was weak, Lestrade prepared to restrain him just the same.

Watson surprised the occupants of the room by suddenly breaking out into laughter.

Alister with his childlike enthusiasm chuckled along with him. "See how freeing it is?" he encouraged.

Watson leaned on Lestrade as he turned to Eads. "You fail to interpret my humour. I was led to believe that I was going to meet one of the great monsters humanity has produced; instead, I get a little runt of a misogynist that thinks that God deigned to talk to him to cover up the fact that he could not get a date with the opposite sex."

He made sure a confused Eads was meeting his gaze. "I refuse to explain my relationship with Mary to you; I am certainly not going to defend it to a lowly little toad who took lives because he lacked the courage to live one of his own."

He turned away from Eads in a dismissive manner, and said to Lestrade, "Please get me out of this dank little room, before I am subjected to more of his drivel."

Agatha let out a little scream, and then Lestrade heard a thump on the floor. He turned reaching for his missing service revolver that was in custody elsewhere.

Alister was on the floor, his face red, holding a hand. In the back of that hand, was a tiny little needle like dart with a gray feather on the end.

He glanced up as Mayweather strode past hastily reassembling what looked to be a fountain pen, he reached down and plucked out the dart, and slipped it into the seam of his right sleeve.

Alister was weeping in his pain. "He shot me! Damn you to hell, you woman loving whore!"

Agatha spoke up. "Eads was reaching for Doctor Watson. That man shot his hand from across the room; I have never seen anything like it.

The guards suddenly flung the bolt back and came pouring into the cell, truncheons at the ready.

"What happened, guv?" one of them demanded from Lestrade.

"He shot me you fool, with his pen!" Alister bellowed, indicating Mayweather while rolling on the floor in pain.

Mayweather shrugged, and wrote on a piece of paper to demonstrate that it was not a weapon.

Lestrade came up with a cover story. "I thought I saw a bee in here earlier."

The guard glanced at the crying man on the floor, and raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade shrugged. "It was a very large bee."

Watson held out his fingers to demonstrate just how massive the bee was.

The guard nodded toward the door they started to leave, when a pain filled voice from the floor spoke up.

"You'll never find him in time, you just cannot see the whole picture," Alister remarked, then spat in the direction of Watson's shoes.

"Your associate is young, impressionable, an artist of some stripe who taught you some of what he knows about angle of light and presentation, but you could never cure him of his love of women, especially one girl in particular. All I need to do to find him, is scrub away your hatred and filth, and I will see the key," Watson informed, his tone devoid of all warmth.

Lestrade could see the truth in Alister's shocked, teary eyes.

"I see well enough to make sure you hang, Mister Eads, you have my word on it." Watson finished, he nudged Lestrade to help him to the door.

Outside the door, Lestrade had to ask, "How did you figure all of that out, John?" as he helped Watson to the first checkpoint.

"Actually, I did not know for sure, until just then, I suspected. It's an old trick of Holmes. He called it fishing. You take what you deduced, tell the person you believe has the knowledge you seek enough salient details to provoke a confession, or they will reveal the truth through some non-verbal clue."

He gave Lestrade that classic lopsided grin, "Besides, it really makes the person you are pursuing, ultimately Alister in this case, paranoid."

"All those times, Holmes was faking?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

Watson smirked. "Not always, but sometimes."

Lestrade gave him suspicious eyes; "you deliberately provoked Eads, didn't you. You knew Mayweather had that dart gun."

Watson looked guilty. "Do you think less of me, Giles?"

Lestrade chuckled, "In all of the interviews, hundreds of interrogations and consultations, no one has ever gotten Alister to show that much of his violent self, and yet in less than twenty minutes of first meeting the man, you had him foaming at the mouth? I still have no idea how you accomplished it."

Watson stared a head for a moment; a wistful smile touched his lips. "I guess you could say that I was taught by a master."

"Holmes?"

Watson shot Lestrade an annoyed look. "Have you already forgotten James?"

Lestrade felt like an idiot. "Oh...of course."

He heard Agatha ahead of them attempting to coax information out of Mayweather, but the reticent Zealander was holding his own with his evasions.

They finally passed through the last checkpoint, receiving the weapons back, which now felt anti-climatic, and made their way to the outside, which somehow seemed brighter and wide open compared to the cramped gaol they had been in for the last hour.

Lestrade tapped Mayweather carefully on his shoulder, trying not to lose a hand, indicating for him to support Watson for a bit. The younger man tipped his hat and helped Watson toward the street, leaving Lestrade and Weems behind.

"You were right, no man deserves to swing more, than Alister Eads," Agatha concluded.

She reached into her purse, and pulled out a pad writing information as she talked. "Your mystery group is led by the Second son of the Duke of Grafton, his brother the Earl of Euston is not a well man and has no sons, so this man may very well become the Duke someday, he throws his weight around like it is already assured. If it all happens, as he believes it will, this man Alfred William Maitland FitzRoy, will be high in the House of Nobles within the next decade."

Lestrade whistled, his consternation growing. "Why does a man in line for Dukedom want Eads released?"

Agatha suddenly looked as if she had a good long taste of something horrid.

"He is part of a group that called themselves, _Psychopathia Criminale_ , after a work in progress of a man whose work they followed, they believed him on the verge of unlocking the secrets of the criminal mind. Since that man died recently, they have changed the name to _The Bedlow Group_ in his memory. They are trying to finish his work; Alister Eads was to be the centrepiece. So they want to release him to a Sanatorium for further study."

Lestrade could only gape at her. "Doctor Gustav Bedlow? The Greater London Sanatorium at Carfax?"

"You knew him?" Agatha inquired; she had that sharp perceptive glint in her eyes.

"Never met the man," Lestrade replied, attempting to keep the shock out of his voice, "but I am starting to feel as though I have."

* * *

**Story Notes:** I am not hating on Quakers. There is a very dear family friend of ours who is a Quaker. However, that particular denomination has a freewheeling, _you are your own minister_, philosophy that fit Alister's madness. I needed him to believe that he was a true prophet of God, and this group would have been well established in England at this time.

About the _**Bedlow Group**_:

There really was a Alfred William Maitland FitzRoy, and he really did become the Duke of Grafton, so if anyone is wondering...there you go.

Psychology was really in it's early stages in the Victorian Era, and there were many things done in the name of it during that time that were just as crazy as the maladies that they were supposedly trying to cure. Having a true Psychopath in custody, willing to talk, would have been the Holy Grail for a fledgling science.

Nobles were often the benefactors and champions for these early sciences, so I hope this does not all seem too far fetched.

Thanks for reading!

**Bart**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes:** I have had controversial elements in my Chapters before, usually I just mention them, and let it go...often I find that my readers with a little advanced notice are fine with it as long as they know somethings coming that might hit them sideways. Stephen King wrote in _On Writing_, that as long as you tell the truth, and remain true to what you feel your characters are, that you will remain safe within the context of the story.

I believe I have told the truth.

I believe I have remained true to my characters...and the ones that Doyle created.

I remain safe...at least that's my theory. LOL!

This is Doyle's World...I'm just living in it for a bit.

Enjoy!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Six**

Lestrade was finally able to extricate himself from Agatha's clutches by promising her an exclusive, he had a hunch he would be dealing with her again soon enough.

Her information had been beyond anything Lestrade had suspected or feared. Alfred FitzRoy was indeed a daunting antagonist.

However, Doctor Gustav Bedlow was the real villain; he was proving to be a monster beyond anything Mary Shelley ever conceived.

Lestrade read Frankenstein when he was a lad on a dare; the tale had kept him up many nights after. Bedlow was the embodiment of that mad creator.

To play with the minds of humanity just for the sake of societal advancement, to destroy lives in the pursuit of understanding the darkest elements of human nature, was akin to electrifying a golem of dead body parts to mock an ability that belonged only to God.

Jeremiah Giordan was a brilliant young man, deeply troubled; he could have become successful at anything he set his mind to if he received the help he so desperately needed. Instead, because of Bedlow's evil manipulation, he lived out the rest of his days believing himself to be Sherlock Holmes, while deep down knowing he was not, a fact that eventually led to his suicide.

Now this misguided, but influential group of people wanted to honour Bedlow's accomplishments, and make sure his name lived on as a great benefactor of humanity, as though the man was reaching from the grave to commit one last atrocity.

Lestrade felt a determination to make sure if Bedlow's name lived on, it would be in infamy.

He made his way to where a cab waited, only to find that Mayweather was waiting beside it.

"Are you not returning with us?" Lestrade inquired.

Mayweather shook his head. "I need to report to the Diogenes, Mycroft wants daily updates on the Doc's condition. He's been paying for everything since tha Doc's laid up."

Lestrade startled, that news was surprising considering the way Mycroft and Watson had parted. They were not enemies, but Watson made it clear he did not trust the elder Holmes enough to be friends.

He nodded that he understood. Mayweather tipped his hat and was about to blend in to the crowd, when Lestrade asked, "Are you entirely sure Eads won't die from that dart?"

Mayweather got a distant look in his cold eyes. "I once placed fifty-two of them into a bloke before his heart gave out. All one dart will do, is make Eads wish he could cut his hand off for a day or so."

Lestrade gave a low whistle. "Fifty-two? What did that man do to deserve such a fate?"

Mayweather smiled, it was not a pleasant one. "I guess you blokes would call him my natural father."

With that disturbing statement, he was gone.

Lestrade stifled a shudder. "Giles old boy, don't ask Mayweather any more questions, you have too many nightmares as it is."

He climbed aboard to see Watson resting his head against the side of the cab, as he was earlier that morning. He showed he was not asleep though, his eyes cracked enough to give Lestrade an eye roll. "You know Lestrade, I used to think you became a constable because of some desire to be in the cause of justice, I know now you just wanted a job where you could get paid for being meddlesome."

Lestrade shrugged. "A man's got to play to his strengths."

He settled in, checked that Mayweather was indeed gone and was about to ask about Mayweather when Watson pulled a note out of his coat pocket. "What is written there is all I know."

Lestrade accepted it with a glower. "I was not that curious."

Watson chuckled. "Yes, you were. Read the damned note."

Lestrade recognized the Diogenes stationary, having seen it far too often lately, as he pulled it out of the envelope.

_Doctor Watson,_

_The man that has found his way to you is whom he claims. I know that lately we have had infiltrators and impostors, a disconcerting reality to be sure. However, our enemies cannot copy the man who bears this note because they are unaware that he exists._

_Only one man knew his real identity, that man was the agent killed by Charon in Calcutta, he was also my trusted friend._

_Mayweather swore to kill Charon, and he had already killed the elder holder of that title, which is why the younger man was the current incarnation, a fact only known to me last night when Mayweather showed up unannounced in my supposedly heavily guarded private quarters wanting to know whom killed the last Charon._

_He explained that he swore a blood oath to rid the world of Charon upon the head of his lost partner, and since he did not strike the final blow, he owes the man who did a life._

_As often as you are in peril, dear Doctor, I feel this is only a temporary nuisance._

_All I know of Mayweather, is that he is the best at what he can do. He is a wraith and a ghost, and lethal with any weapon imaginable, he is loyal to his last breath. If he has transferred his allegiance over to you, then you have a ridiculously capable bodyguard for the duration._

_My dear friend raised this man from a youth, if he believed in Algon, be assured you can as well._

_Mycroft Holmes_

Doctor Watson was still resting his head against the carriage wall, but he was eyeing Lestrade as he read the note.

"So, you have a bodyguard whether you want it or not?"

Watson nodded, "So it appears."

Lestrade smirked. "With your propensity for drawing danger down upon yourself, I place the duration of his guardianship a month."

Watson chuckled. "You are being kind."

Lestrade grasped his friend's shoulder. "Yes, unfortunately, I was being kind."

**--- **

It was getting on towards luncheon when they arrived back at the Yard. The rest of the ride had been silent; Lestrade listened to Watson's laboured breathing with consternation. The man was obviously in pain, but if he did not want anyone to remark upon his circumstance, Lestrade was going to honour his wish. **(6)** However, that did not preclude Lestrade making other plans.

As he helped Watson down from the cab, he glanced up to see Geezer's livery was parked out front of the Yard.

Watson was perceptive as always. "I did not call for Lewis, why is he here?"

He began to eye Lestrade suspiciously, and his wariness rewarded once they entered the building.

"Doctor Watson! They told me you were feeling ill, but look at you."

Mrs. Hudson came into view; she was carrying a dish under a cover. As she began to fuss over Watson, he frowned at Lestrade. "I thought you gave in to my wishes rather easily."

Lestrade was unrepentant. "You can use my office, Mrs. Hudson, bon appetite, Doctor."

Watson allowed himself to scolded and led down toward Lestrade's office. Lestrade would have followed, but something he had been dreading all day derailed his plans.

"Lestrade, get in here." Superintendent Collins's voice cracked, out like a whip.

Lestrade had never heard the man so raw, but then again he had never been under the pressure that he was undoubtedly experiencing now.

He sighed, straightened his coat, located his badge just in case it necessary to turn it in, and strode into the office.

This was one of the longest days of his career already, and it was just before noon. He longed to go home to Lizzy and spend time in her comfort, but it appeared more and more likely, he was going to be there into the night.

He was surprised to find the barrister assigned to the Yard seated across from Collins with a cup of tea in hand.

You knew things had really progressed from bad to worse when the Old Red Fox made an appearance at the Met.

The Honourable Eoin Payne, was a Scotsman by birth, but fought his way up through the ranks of the judiciary in spite of his heritage to become a legendary barrister. He gained his nickname because of his competence and the trademark dark red hair nearly gone gray on his head. The man kept a tightly trimmed Van Dyke of a darker shade, which he stroked often while in thought.

He was the most successful prosecutor that the Yard had access to, but he was not a man to trifle with. He did not tolerate handling cases to prosecute with significant flaws. If he saw a gap or weakness in the evidence he was to present, he would appear for a consultation, and he was just as dissecting to the Inspectors as he would be to a witness on the stand.

Lestrade had been under the man's scrutiny more than once, and did not find it enjoyable.

Collins sat on the edge of his desk as Lestrade entered.

"Ahhh, Chief Inspector Lestrade, it is so nice that you would honour us with your presence, considering the straights in which we find ourselves," Payne remarked with that trademark perfect diction.

The tone was light and friendly but the brown eyes were cold and intense. "I would like to know everything you have so far."

Lestrade settled into the other chair. "What we have so far, gentlemen, is a red hot mess that is threatening to give Scotland Yard a black eye for years to come."

Payne smiled. "I have always enjoyed your candor, Lestrade, but how about specifics?"

Lestrade sighed. "We have a young lady who was killed last night in the trademark style of the Red Tear Strangler, we do not have proof as of yet, but our top men feel that this was the work of an accomplice under Alister Eads's instruction. There is a group wanting to release Eads, and they have at their head the possibly future Duke of Grafton, Alfred FitzRoy. As I understand it, they are pushing for a hearing within the next day or so, most certainly, before Eads's hanging. So we need to find this accomplice as soon as we can manage or it may be months to years before Alister meets his just fate."

Payne nodded. "You are very well informed Giles, but your information is old."

Lestrade ran a hand over his tired eyes. "What has happened now?"

Payne leaned back trying to show a casual manner, but his knuckles were white. "They are filing for a hearing in civil court."

"But criminal court takes precedence!" Lestrade stated outraged.

Payne nodded. "The criminal court docket is full; he is due to die this Friday, so the civil case will be pushed through, no doubt. I am trying to clear space for a hearing of the criminal case against Eads, but if they get this new body introduced as evidence they can argue that Eads is the accomplice, and Eads's rights have been violated by police negligence."

Collins nodded his eyes more serious than Lestrade had ever seen them. "Let us not put too fine a point on it, the Yard is on trial here, our procedures and diligence will be called in account, and this is a disaster of epic proportions for this office."

Lestrade tried not to panic, so he focused on the details. "If we get a criminal hearing first, will it supersede the civil?"

Payne nodded. "If we get the criminal court hearing first and reintroduce the mountain of proof we have against Eads, and throw enough light on his role as the instigator and main participate of his crimes, even with the accomplice we can get a Judge's ruling to hang the man on his appointed time. That would make the civil case moot."

Lestrade leaned forward meeting Payne's gaze. "Let us suppose..."

Payne nodded. "Go on."

Collins made for the door. "I will let you two discuss the situation, I am going to find some lunch."

He was a politician, the best way to feign ignorance was not to be present, Lestrade appreciated Collin's position, but he still felt it cowardly to a certain extent.

"You were saying," Payne encouraged, his eyes twinkling.

"If you can create some room on the docket for a hearing in Criminal this afternoon, maybe the last session, what if I told you the Civil case will not be filed until late this afternoon at the earliest?'

Payne considered his words. "There is only one Judge who cannot be intimidated by a FitzRoy, a spot on his docket might be available, can the Yard be ready to present their case by then?"

"Investigative, or forensic evidence?"

"Both."

Lestrade sighed. "We'll be ready."

Payne nodded. "I will call in every favour I have to make this happen, some of them saved for years until a rainy day, but I forgot this is London, they are all rainy days. Make sure that civil case filing delays, Benedict will make any amount of room they need him to make, and he might as well be a servant. I don't have to tell you what his ruling in the matter will be."

Lestrade nodded. "Done...you know...supposedly."

Payne chuckled.

---

Lestrade made his way down to his office, when he heard a familiar voice recounting a story that Lestrade hoped would have died with him.

"And so we decided to set up a sting, and Gilesy was tha bait, he was the only one with legs smooth enough to get into the knickers."

Lestrade increased his pace before he could get to the next part, but he was too late.

"It was a pretty dress too, it was, a nice yellow color."

He heard the gales of laughter, and sighed. This day could not get any longer!

He made the common room, the inspectors and milling PC's were listening with rapt attention to a tall slender built man with a gray beard and dark blue eyes filled with mirth.

"Well speak evil, and there's Gilesy."

Lestrade saw that to his utter chagrin Gregson and Hopkins were back, and the big Swede looked like he was memorizing all of the ammo he was receiving for future shenanigans.

"Hello, Patterson, I see you've been entertaining," Lestrade remarked in a wry tone.

Gregson got a suspicious thoughtful look on his face. "Blimey, Gilesy, I dint know your colour was yellow."

They all had a laugh, Lestrade did not bother with the patented end-your-career stare, he was happy to see that Yard spirits were up, even if it was at his expense.

"What did you two find out with Tommy and Bobby?"

Gregson and Hopkins exchanged a look of pain.

"Well we found out why those two stay on the night walk,"Hopkins began.

Gregson grunted. "It turns out that's tha only time they can get a word in."

Hopkins nodded. "We met their wives, Barbara, and Thomasina."

"You must be jesting!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Gregson shrugged. "I wish we were, Tommy and Bobby live in a two story together, their families right on top, and we got the full run down on all neighbourhood activities while we waited. I asked Hopkins to shoot me at one point, but he refused."

Hopkins looked unrepentant as he responded, "If I had killed you, who would have done for me?"

Lestrade cleared his throat in a meaningful manner.

Hopkins pulled out his ever-present pad. "We followed Bobby and Tommy around the rest of the morning, giving me a blinding headache by the way, the only resident we could find who would talk to us was Annie MacPearson."

"Cockney Annie?" Lestrade interjected

Gregson nodded. "Could not understand a word, Hopkins wrote her entire spiel down hoping someone could interpret.

Lestrade nodded to the young inspector. He cleared his throat and recited:

I were mindin' me own business, I sell 'air bows yer know, not wot yer might 'ave 'eard because there are some jealous cows 'ereabouts. It were foggy, sor this bloke pushin' a cart that I 'ad not seen before. I asked if 'e wanted ter put the mockers on for a chat, right, a chat thats all mind yer. He 'ave a looked wite as a sheet, right, he did. He declined and that were the bloomin' end of it. I did not spot his Nanny Goat Race too clearly but I fink 'e were a yung bloke from the bleedin' sound of 'im.

Lestrade sighed. "Anyone know what all that meant?"

A deep resonating voice came from a back corner. "She was minding her own business, it was foggy and she saw this man pushing a cart that she had not seen before, she propositioned him, he turned her down, his face was white as a sheet, most likely from shock, said she did not see him clearly, but thought he sounded young."

Everyone turned to the voice, it was PC Reynolds, under their scrutiny, he just shrugged.

Lestrade sighed. "Right, so that confirms what we suspect, that the mystery killer is a young man, and that he is not a calloused killer. What do you remember about that case, Patterson?"

"Here name was Mary Kessel, she was a single scullery maid North Side, her home was down near Shoreditch, strangled with a ribbon garrote so hard it crushed her throat, no signs of struggle or assault. If it was an Eads, it was before he gained full control over his urges and refined his technique. At the time, I thought the killer had a twisted sense of humor."

"Sense of humor, how so?" Hopkins, inquired.

Patterson shrugged. "My wife used to wear ribbons around her throat in her dressier outfits, they call'em chokers."

The inspectors all exchanged a glance. That detail had not occurred to any of them; plainly written on their already exhausted faces.

"Why didn't you think of that Giles, evidently you know women's clothing, " Gregson remarked with a grin.

Lestrade made a weak obscene gesture in response.

He glared at the smiling Patterson for bringing that morsel from his early career to the Yard's attention.

"We have a hearing this afternoon where we have to present all of the evidence that we gathered for the first Eads conviction, both forensic and investigative."

Bradstreet grunted. "This afternoon, Giles that's not much time to prepare."

"I am aware of that fact, but if we fail to get a ruling this afternoon to keep the current conviction, then it goes to civil court and Benedict tomorrow.

They all winced at that name; not many Yard investigators had escaped that man's bias.

"Let me talk to Doctor Watson." he said turning to go into his office.

Gregson nodded. "I wouldn't go in there; Mrs. Hudson told us they were not to be disturbed until she could get some soup in 'em."

"I asked her here, maybe she'll make an exception." Lestrade replied.

"We need a representative of the Yard, I think Hopkins is our best foot forward," Lestrade said as he started toward the office, "any objections, no? Get your notes together, son."

Hopkins started to protest, but Lestrade's glare silenced him, it was nice to see that someone was not immune.

He knocked on the door of his office as softly as possible; Mrs. Hudson bade him to enter.

When Lestrade did, he was amazed to find that Doctor Watson was sleeping soundly on his settee.

Mrs. Hudson, seated on a chair she had pulled over; she was gently brushing his hair. "You don't have to be quiet Chief Inspector. He won't be waking up until sometime tomorrow."

Lestrade pulled a chair over to her and sat on her level. "How can you be so sure?"

She smiled. "Mister Holmes and I worked out a formula for when Doctor Watson was ill but being stubborn about it, that soup he managed to eat had a solid dose of knock out drops."

"Knock out drops!" Lestrade exclaimed.

She gave him the stare that made even Sherlock Holmes penitent. "The message I received from you, was that Watson was very ill and could not keep anything on his stomach, you wanted me to see if I could talk him into backing away until he recovered a bit. Lewis did not exaggerate, those where your words?"

"Yes, they were my words, but I hoped he would be available for consultation at the very least." Lestrade said in his least confrontational voice.

She shook her head ruefully. "I thought you were becoming friends with John, surely you understand that the man is incapable of half measures, it is either active or unconscious, he is far too stubborn to compromise."

She gave Watson's forehead a quick feel. "His fever is still far too high for my liking; he would refuse a hospital if he were awake so I will care for him at Baker Street as soon as that nice young man that has been caring for him returns."

Lestrade decided it was not prudent to disabuse her of her misconception of Mayweather, besides if anyone on the earth could bring that man to heel it was this formidable lady in front of him.

He tipped his hat to her as he rose. "The Yard is at your disposal, anything you need, please send me word as soon as he regains lucidity."

She sighed as she went back to brushing the Watson's sweaty hair back from his forehead. "He will most likely insist upon it."

Lestrade nodded and left the office, he found the inspectors gathered around Hopkins giving advice to the young man who was furiously scribbling notes into his pad. Patterson was particularly vocal, having been involved in one of the Yard's largest criminal prosecutions ever. Lestrade sensed that the man was eager to be back among his peers. The formerly gregarious policeman forced to be a recluse in the past years, was right in the middle of the discussion, fitting in like a comfortable sock.

"Doctor Watson is out for the time being, St. Cloud will have to present their findings at the hearing, inform him of it. Make sure that Mrs. Hudson and Mayweather have all the manpower they need to get Watson home," he remarked to Gregson.

Gregson, to his credit, nodded assent with no argument. "Where are you going Giles?"

Lestrade turned back to him long enough to say, "I am going to make sure there is a meeting to prepare for."

Gregson nodded. "You need to go out tha back, the word got out."

Lestrade grimaced, he had been at the centre of media frenzy before, it was not and enjoyable experience

He took the Swede's advice.

**---**

The greasy little clerk namedWilliam Barkley, known to himself as Handsome Bill, but to the females of London that had the misfortune of crossing his path as "The Grabber" was shuffling some papers, grumbling about the increased workload.

Some blighter came down a bit ago and dropped a stack on his desk, telling him that The Earl of Tutwiler, or someone, had made a request, and now he had to make room on Judge Benedict's docket by this afternoon.

Benedict had done many favours for the nobility over the years, so much that the Judge was practically a servant. "The Earl says I wan' you to dive off of Dover, ole Ben says would you like a half-twist in pike position on da way down?" he groused.

Suddenly, William smelled a familiar perfume.

It was light with a mysterious spice mixed in under the floral. _Miss Giordan?_

He looked up to see Carla Giordan peeking through the door, smiling at him. "Mister Barkley, do you perchance, remember me?" she purred in that wonderful alto voice of hers.

She was abnormally tall, around one and half meters in height, with rich blond hair pulled up into an elaborate plate. Her perfect bone structure accented with just enough make up to enhance not conceal the beauty beneath, her smiling light blue eyes transfixed him in his chair.

Yes, he did remember her.

Of course, their last meeting had not gone very well, he still felt a twinge from her well placed knee to his groin.

"Hello my lovely, it is wonderful to see you again," he called slicking his moustaches with an ink-mottled finger.

"I just could not get you off of my mind as of late, so I wanted to come down and see if you would have dinner with me this evening, to apologize for any past deplorable behaviour," she replied, her face pensive for his answer.

William ran a quick hand through his hair, and rubbed the oil on his wrinkled pants. "I would be honoured, but I have just been given a task that will take me most of the day."

She pouted prettily. "I am leaving for Italy tomorrow; I know not when I will return. I was so looking forward to an escort this evening; I need a reason to come back to the Isle."

As she locked eyes with him, he felt his resistance melt. "Well, I could just shuffle this new case to first thing tomorrow morning, the bloke has until Friday, that would free me up for this afternoon."

"That is the most wonderful news." She said conversationally as she carefully touched up her lipstick, in her compact mirror.

"Yes, tomorrow will most definitely be sufficient." he murmured watching her perfect lips being swathed in that delightful red. "I'll change around a case for tomorrow and shuffle it to tonight, that should not take an hour, and then I will be free, and yours."

She smiled so warmly that William felt he was going to burst into flames from desire, his hands twitched in their longing to touch some of her perfection.

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "You do that right away, I will see you tonight, a runner will arrive with a note to tell you where."

She stopped his hand before it could stray, waggled a finger at the naughty boy, and made her way out in a manner that promised many things, most of them covered by the seven deadly sins.

He immediately began bundling up the file, and writing missives to the representatives of the relocated case from tomorrow, that their hearing had been moved up last minute.

This new file was going to be there in the morning, he had a date to prepare for. He wondered if his barber was open, he was running out of his favourite hair tonic yet again.

---

She exited the Bailey trying to conceal a shudder; she strolled down the steps under a parasol, which she collapsed expertly as she boarded the waiting cab.

"Ugh, that is the most disgusting, odious specimen of manhood I have ever had the misfortune of encountering in all my years, and I am in the theatre! It is a good thing I am the best actor in the city."

Lestrade reached out and gave her hand a gentle kiss. "Indeed you are Carla, we are very grateful to you. William will not remember you after the activities of this afternoon; he will be far too busy saving his job once the Judge realizes plans have gone awry."

"What a comfort," Carla remarked with a smirk.

"Indeed," Lestrade agreed with a smile. "Judge Burkett will hear the criminal case, he is the least beholden to the upper class; he is upper class himself, second in line to the Duke of Kent. Alfred FitzRoy will not be able to influence him; as he is higher up. If we are to get a fair hearing, it will be with that man."

She looked serious. "Those people took my Jeremiah away from me, turned him into a monster, the puppet of evil men. You must stop them, Giles, at any cost."

Lestrade inclined his head, graciously. "You have my word we will try, there is not much we can do directly against the nobility, but they will not find their way easy. I am sorry you had to be in reach of William's greasy hands though."

She winced at the memory. "You tell John Watson, he owes me a dinner as soon as he recovers and we will consider our account settled."

Lestrade chuckled. "He will be informed of it."

* * *

**Story Notes:** Wikipedia Notes on Choloral Hydrate (Called Knock Out Drops in Victorian England):

It was discovered through the chlorination of ethanol in 1832 by Justus von Liebig in Gießen. Its sedative properties were first published in 1869 and subsequently, because of its easy synthesis, its use was widespread. It was widely abused and misprescribed in the late 19th century. Chloral hydrate is soluble in both water and alcohol, readily forming concentrated solutions. A solution of chloral hydrate in alcohol called "knockout drops" was used to prepare a Mickey Finn.

Chloral hydrate is used for the short-term treatment of insomnia and as a sedative before minor medical or dental treatment. It was largely displaced in the mid-20th century by barbiturates and subsequently by benzodiazepines. It was also formerly used in veterinary medicine as a general anesthetic. Today, it is commonly used as an ingredient in the veterinary anesthetic Equithesin[_citation needed_]. It is also still used as a sedative prior to EEG procedures, as it is one of the few available sedatives that does not suppress epileptiform discharges[_citation needed_].

In therapeutic doses for insomnia chloral hydrate is effective within sixty minutes, it is metabolized within 4 minutes into trichloroethanol by erythrocytes and plasma esterases and many hours later into trichloroacetic acid. Higher doses can depress respiration and blood pressure. An overdose is marked by confusion, convulsions, nausea and vomiting, severe drowsiness, slow and irregular breathing, cardiac arrhythmia and weakness. It may also cause liver damage and is moderately addictive, as chronic use is known to cause dependency and withdrawal symptoms. The chemical can potentiate various anticoagulants and is weakly mutagenic in vitro and in vivo[_citation needed_].

Chloral hydrate is now illegal in the United States without a prescription. Chloral hydrate is a schedule IV controlled substance in the United States. Its properties have sometimes led to its use as a date rape drug.

Just so you know I'm not making it up...Holmes would have known the chemical and it's results so while not in cannon I think it fits. Mrs. Hudson is a mum, mum's sometimes do underhanded things for the good of their kids, and I think Holmes and Watson were like two big kids to her...that's my take...feel free to discuss.

**(6)** Yet another sick Watson pic...lets face it the man is not well LOL!

**Bart**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Notes:** Please allow me to whine a little bit. This current Doctor John installment has grown to gargantuan proportions causing me to do all sorts of research, this chapter may have taken the cake!

In this installment I had to study the British Court system, along with the actual procedures which I had to streamline for the sake of not getting too dry. I had to research the History of forensic science in France and discovered that placing my Chief of Police Surgeons as from there was fortuitous indeed!

I know that I probably did not dot some i's or cross some t's and I am sure someone will point that fact out to me, but I have to say that this has been my greatest writing challenge so far! I have so many plot lines and supplemental characters in this particular fourth installment that I am feeling a bit overwhelmed to be honest...but man is it turning out to be everything I hoped it to be!

This was actually going to be the first chapter in Doctor John series without Doctor John, whom we know was drugged by a well meaning Mrs. Hudson at the close of the last chapter just to get him to rest. (what a stubborn ass!) But I had to include a tag which I am glad I did, because in someways this was Lestrade's version of Chapter four in the first book. I find it hilarious that Lestrade is such a tight arse with his feelings that it takes talking to an unconscious man to really open up LOL!

anyway I hope you get some enjoyment out of this!

**Bart**

BTW: Chevalier C. Aguste Dupin belongs to the great Egdar Allen Poe and the rest belong to ACD...except my OC's which are mine.

thanks!

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Seven**

The court was in session.

The cryer finished with his traditional call, the judge entered and they took their seats. The crowded gallery included reporters, Lestrade picked out both Trollop and Weems among the note takers, and from the expensive clothing and perfumes some members of the upper class. This situation was rapidly growing out of hand, even if Eads got his necktie at the close of the week, there would be a lot of onlookers and publicity. Lestrade wondered if this was not all part of Alister's plan, if he was going to hang he wanted the world watching.

Judge Burkett was a small nervous looking fastidious man, who had quick limpid dark eyes and a neatly clipped greying beard. He quickly called for the first case and got right to work.

The evening session, almost entirely cleared with other matters before the court called and dispatched to other days leaving the matter of The People versus Alister Eads concerning the Petition to Postpone Execution Indefinitely, sole business at hand.

Lestrade was seated behind Payne, Hopkins was beside him reciting facts under his breath, Bradstreet had insisted on coming in support, his bear like presence a comfort to his slender partner. St. Cloud sat on the other side of Bradstreet inscrutable and grave.

Gregson, absent because he was left in charge of the Yard, Patterson adjourned home, but offered to return tomorrow and help with the investigation, the other inspectors and constables went about the business of policing the city.

Lestrade leaned in to speak with Payne motioning for Hopkins to listen in. "So what is our plan of attack?"

Payne had an excited glint in his eye, a man completely in his element, his wig was simple and had seen better days, but Eoin wore it as if it were his real hair. "They chose a talented barrister, but he is very young and aggressive, his tact will be to discredit methods and call competence into doubt, young Hopkins here needs to be exact and leave no room for discrediting. The case against Alister Eads is just as air tight as it was when we first brought before the court; the burden belongs to them if we leave no room."

Lestrade reached out a hand and gave Hopkins a squeeze. "You have a natural feel for politics, Stanley, use that against them, this is going to turn into a point counter point debate, I'll wager, you are more than qualified."

Payne nodded eagerly, "Do not lose your head, speak your mind, if he becomes rude and argumentative, which will most likely be his tact, take him on with evidence not conjecture, he cannot refute fact."

Hopkins was pale, but he managed to nod. Lestrade realized that the young man was growing into the new moustache; it was no longer a comical attempt at homage, but a legitimate growth that gave him a more adult gravitas. Lestrade had no doubts about the young man's mind.

While not the best Scotland Yard investigator, Stanley remembered facts and reproduced them better than anyone else in the force. If the fight ahead was one of concrete evidence, there was no better man in London to go to war.

"Counsellors, are you ready to proceed?" Judge Burkett called in his light tenor voice.

"We are prepared, your Honour," Eoin called with a note of satisfied confidence.

The other barrister was a young man, with a fresh face under the perfect, elaborate horsehair wig, he stood, he swept his eyes over the assemblage opposing with poorly disguised contempt. "We protest the suddenness of this hearing, your Honour; we request a recess until such a time as our case can be better assembled."

Burkett's piercing gaze locked onto the younger man's. "Since it has been brought to my attention that you filed a motion in Civil Court for this afternoon, then you obviously felt you had enough to proceed today, at least over there. If you have a case worthy of this Court's attention, then it should be quickly and easily gathered, it is only an argument that is based more in posturing and conjecture that needs time to convalesce, at least I have found it to be so. By asking for a continuance, you are causing me to presuppose that there is a need for fabrication, which does not bode well for your client. Is the request for prolongation still worth lodging? Or are we ready to carry on?"

"Counsellor Victor Reese for the petitioners, your Honour, we are ready to proceed."

Burkett nodded. "Call your first witness, Counsellor Payne."

Lestrade enjoyed that opening salvo more than he would have ever thought. He had to give Payne credit, Burkett was everything he said he would be, a man who governed with equanimity and verve, a man beholden to no one and impartial to all classes in his courtroom.

Payne advanced to the podium and led Hopkins through the specifics of the case against Eads, from the first murder to his final kill, the investigations, evidence and events surrounding. Hopkins was like a steam driven machine with his ever-present pad in hand, any question put to him, effortlessly handled.

Lestrade glanced to the side to see Bradstreet's chest swell with pride at his partner's competence. When Hopkins was first given his appointment to Inspector, Lestrade had paired the two hoping that Bradstreet's street smarts and organic style would loosen the younger man up to a less by the book approach, even he was surprised when the two men became fast friends.

Not the mentor/student relationship that Lestrade had anticipated, instead, they both learned from each other and soon where cross investigating, and consulting when one hit a snag.

Payne's questioning was drawing to a close, Payne made a notation in his own notes, then asked a question which Lestrade was confused by.

"Inspector Hopkins, are you content with the knowledge that the man due to dangle at the end of a noose day after next is the man who committed these heinous crimes?"

Lestrade hissed through his teeth. Payne had opened up the line of questioning that would lead to the introduction of the new crime scene and the presence of a possible accomplice.

Hopkins gave the man a questioning glance, but recovered. "I, with absolutely no reservation, consider Alister Eads the only culprit in these five murders."

Lestrade expected Payne to redirect or shore up the breach he just created, but the man nodded at the answer. "No more questions your honour."

Burkett nodded and directed Reese to cross-examine.

Victor Reese looked as if he the petition was already his. He glanced at Payne in a pitying manner as if to say, _The Old Red Fox has lost it._

Lestrade was equally convinced of Payne's loss of mentality, but he did see that little smile that Payne was still wearing as he took his seat stroking his beard.

"Inspector Hopkins, was there, or was there not, a similar murder committed just this morning, with the same modus as the Red Tear Stranglings while Alister Eads remained safely ensconced in Newgate Prison?"

Hopkins had to confirm.

"And yet you remained convinced that Eads should hang for these murders, when in fact there is still a killer out there using the same methodology?"

Hopkins did not hesitate. "Yes, I remain convinced."

Reece shot the Judge a look to show just how ridiculous the officer was being. "Are you denying the evidence that these cases have a connection?" he asked exasperated.

Hopkins shook his head. "No, they definitely have a connection."

Reese smiled shooting Payne a triumphant glance. "So by all means, tell the court why you remain so convinced, in the face of another murder which you confirm is connected to the earlier ones attributed to Eads?"

Bradstreet was quietly praying to himself, but Lestrade was finally seeing the trap.

Hopkins smiled. "Alister Eads was captured dumping the body of his last victim; he was viewed by constables dripping his own blood on her face from his own hand which was the trademark we held back from official records. Once accosted, he surrendered immediately and proceeded to confess to all the murders, he had a handmade garrotte on his person that matched the tool marks on the ribbons that strangled all five victims. He took us to the address where he took his victims and we found items from all five there.

This latest murder varied in method, location, and pathology which means that if the newest murder was committed by the perpetrator of the others, he changed into someone else entirely, which is even more outlandish than if Eads learned to walk through walls."

Hopkins actually smiled wider when he made the last point. "The only way for the case against Mister Eads to be more perfect is if he had pulled up in front of Scotland Yard itself, whistled for everyone to come out and strangled a victim right there in front of us all. Every single detail in his many confessions matched all evidence collected. Alister Eads is convinced he is the killer, and is rather proud of his accomplishments, we at the Yard are convinced, I cannot fathom the amount of proof it would take to convince you as well since you seem determined to ignore the obvious."

Reese clearly shaken turned to the judge, "Your Honour I wish that last statement stricken from the record since it was a personal attack and not testimony."

Burkett was clearly amused. "Duly noted, and it will be so stricken. Anymore questions for this witness?"

"No your honour," Reese said as he made his way back to his table. He did not look as triumphant now.

"Redirect?" Burkett asked politely.

"No further questions for this witness, your Honor," Payne replied with a chuckle in his voice.

Lestrade had to smile, as they accepted Hopkins back into their number with some backslaps and congratulations. Reese was so eager to follow up on the obvious avenue offered that he never stopped to realize that alone, the facts of the case were just that, facts, but by allowing Hopkins to place them in proper context, the size of the case became more apparent.

_Old Red Fox indeed!_

St. Cloud was next to the stand. Even though Lestrade had his share of conflicts with the large Frenchmen, he had to admit, when you put the man into a nice French cut suit, he was formidable looking indeed.

St. Cloud recounted all the details from the previous cases in uncomfortably nauseating detail, Payne seemed to follow every line of questioning that would bring out the most graphic detail. Lestrade thought that the man was attempting to show just how violent those murders were so when they gave details of the latest body, the difference would be more obvious.

Sure enough, Payne brought up Genny Bisset and St. Cloud began to recount the findings, to Lestrade's astonishment, the man gave full credit to Doctor Watson as well, including the observations about the nature of this latest murder and the contrast in pathology.

Once again Payne opened up a line of questioning that Lestrade thought should have been left closed, "In your personal opinion, as an well educated coroner, where the first crimes committed by the perpetrator of this latest murder?"

St. Cloud's answer was quick and adamant, "No, zir, they were not."

"Payne looked up. "No further questions for this witness your Honour." He left the podium with a curious little smile on his face. Lestrade had no idea why he looked so pleased, almost smug.

To his credit, Victor Reese eyed Payne with suspicion before he began his attack.

The attacks were mostly on methodology, which St. Cloud fielded easily, then Reese moved onto Doctor Watson and his qualifications, to Lestrade's surprise St. Cloud defended the man, and his one time rival, with equal vigour.

Payne was leaning forward like a hunter who has laid a snare for the unwary rabbit.

Reese spun back to the Police Surgeon. "You gave a stranger off the streets, who has no official training in forensic science or methodology, full credentials that take some men years to earn, what makes you qualified to make such a leap in judgement?"

Lestrade saw Payne give a quick fist pump of victory.

"Am I qualified to make such a judgement?" St. Cloud asked in an imperious tone that in times past had caused Lestrade to grit his teeth but now gave him reason to root for the officious Frenchman.

"I graduated from L'Ecole Normale Superieure at ze top of my class. It iz a school known worldwide for itz zientific achievement, Louis Pasteur taught and performed his experimentz there, doez he zound familier? Picked to join ze Paris, Institut des sciences judiciaries, ze foremost leaderz of Forenzic développement in ze world, I trained under ze eye of Alphonse Bertillion himzelf. You may not know, but he iz called ze Father of Criminal enquête... Pardonnez-moi...investigation.

Iz Doctor John Watzon compétent? He iz one of ze most capable investigatorz I ave met, and I waz once acquainted with Chevalier C. Aguste Dupin.

Doctor Watzon's former acquaintance, Sherlock 'olmes, taught him obzervational techniquez zat I ave never zeen before, beyond zat, he haz tête-à-têtes wit ze dezeased zat borderz on necromancy, in all my yearz I ave zeen nothing like eet."

St. Cloud's hard cold eyes bored into the Counselor's. "I azk you, Jeune homme, are my qualifications suffisante?"

In the silence that followed, Victor Reese nodded. "No more questions, your honour."

The gallery chuckled as Bradstreet, Hopkins and Lestrade exchanged glances.

"Did you know?" Lestrade murmured. Bradstreet and Hopkins shook their heads. Payne turned enough to give Lestrade a wink.

Lestrade had to laugh. "Payne did. Looks like Counsellor Reese just went to school."

---

The rest of the proceedings and the perfunctory closing statements made, they waited for the judge to leave to make his deliberations, however they were in for a surprise.

"At this time, I am ready to make a ruling," Burkett remarked. "While Scotland Yard has shown just cause, and have established their conclusions admirably, there is the issue of a man's life at stake in this matter. I will have to postpone the execution."

The other party let out a sudden exclamation of victory, while Lestrade began to curse under his breath using words that Bradstreet glowered at with deep reproach.

"However," the judge continued, "I give Scotland Yard until the closing of my last session tomorrow to come up with this accomplice, if he is in custody and willing to give testimony to Eads actual involvement, then I will rule that the execution proceed as scheduled. That is all."

They all stood as Burkett left in a flurry of black robes.

Lestrade and the Yarders stared at the group who were triumphantly chatting with one another while the reporters closed in for interviews. Agatha Weems gave Lestrade a penitent look before she stepped in with the group.

Payne pursed his lips. "Burkett's ruling was fair, anyone else would not have given us the grace period, and Benedict would have released the bastard."

Lestrade nodded. Hopkins looked dejected. "How are we going to find the accomplice by tomorrow, Giles, if Eads doesn't swing Friday, they will have plenty of time to get that case with Benedict put through."

Lestrade nodded that he understood, his mind was a jumbled mess, he needed to go home to Clea to straighten out, after this day, he could use one of her shoulder rubs.

"Doctor Watzon will figure zis out, I am conviced of eet." St. Cloud interjected.

Lestrade sighed. "If we had a week we might have come up with the accomplice doing old fashioned police work, but to have him here tomorrow, that's going to take a miracle."

"Then we'll just pray for a miracle." Bradstreet replied with a steady confidence. Lestrade gave him a tired smile.

---

As tired as Lestrade was, he had one more stop to make before he could go home. He stopped by Scotland Yard and found a packet of photos on his desk meant for Doctor Watson, copies of all of the five previous victims and a shot of a deceased Genny Bisset that took his breath when he saw it.

_I hope these help._

_Rollins_

Lestrade took the packet with him, after checking with Gregson and filing in the rest of the Yarders on the results of the trial; he hopped into a cab and headed for Baker Street.

---

The incongruity of this situation hit him as he disembarked in front of that familiar fascia. He was almost sure he heard a phantom violin committing acts against musicality, or saw a billowing cloud of foul pipe smoke emanating from that upstairs window. He only came here as a last resort, and he always felt this kernel of hope when he climbed those stairs, a hope that the mind that resided in that second floor apartment would be able to pierce the conundrum and give him a solution.

Now here he was, once again facing a situation that looked hopeless, one in which he needed answers and rather quickly, but there was no towering intellect up those stairs. Just a very ill, man who Lestrade had come to call friend who he wished he could leave alone to recover.

He rang the bell; Mrs. Hudson answered it with a glower.

"Chief Inspector, I believe I mentioned that John is going to be out until tomorrow sometime?" she reminded in a dangerous tone.

Lestrade held up the packet. "Mrs. Hudson, would that I could allow John time to recover, but if we don't find an answer by tomorrow evening, a very evil man will be loosed upon society by a group of well meaning fools. John is the only person I know who might have a chance to stop it."

She was wiping her hands on a rag; she turned to the side to allow him inside, then turned and bellowed up the stairs, "Algon, its Chief Inspector Lestrade, try not to damage him." She turned back to Lestrade, "Go on up."

Lestrade paused. "So, you know he's dangerous?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course he's dangerous; you get to be around a lot of scary persons when you've got Mister Holmes under your roof. Algon is only dangerous to anyone who would harm Doctor Watson; he's really a sweet young man otherwise."

She left a dubious Lestrade to his careful ascension of the stairs.

He reached the top and turned into the familiar sitting room to find that Algon was eating an apple, he was using the knife from Holmes's mantel to peel it with rather frightening aptitude.

"Wotcher got there, mate?" he asked eating a slice.

Lestrade held out the packet very carefully. "These are the photographs that Watson asked for."

Mayweather studied him as a tiger would a potential meal. "What transpired at the hearin?"

Lestrade told him all the salient details while he continued to eat his apple.

Mayweather grasped the importance immediately. "Do you have anyone else who can figure this?"

Lestrade hated to admit it. "Not in the time allowed. There are gaps in our information that would take weeks of legwork to resolve, we need someone who can see the whole picture without most of the pieces, John does that better than anyone I know right now."

Mayweather nodded. "I will make sure he gets them as soon as he's up."

Lestrade gave him the packet. "How is he?"

"He's still got a fever, I changed his dressings...bloke didn't even stir. Missus Hudson gave him enough drops to put a stallion down."

Lestrade knew that Watson was not awake but he felt a need to check on his friend.

Mayweather seemed to read his intent.

"He's up the stairs, Misus Hudson's insistence; she assured me he would not be comfortable waking in the one down here. Feel free to stay as long as you like."

Lestrade nodded and ascended the stairs; he opened the room door and saw that the room, lit by the early evenings dying sun, was dust free and the sheets on the bed, recently laundered. The bedside table, covered with various implements needed to care for someone ill, and in the middle of it, was John Watson on his side sound asleep.

There was a chair beside the bed, Lestrade pulled it over and sat near his friend.

He watched in silence, he knew it was an odd, disconcerting thing to do, but he felt some affection for this weary man and watching over him while he slept did not seem that out of form.

"We have done all we could do to forestall them, John, but we only have until tomorrow."

He sighed and leaned back in the chair absently twisting his hat brim in his hands. "Alister beat us, John, he beat us solid for months, but we didn't have you then."

More to himself than the sleeping man, Lestrade remarked. "If you don't find a way to this accomplice, Eads walks, if Eads walks, more women die."

He reached out and rested a hand on John's shoulder and went to the door, before he left he turned one last time. "You asked me one time if I could learn to trust you..." Lestrade paused tapping his fingers against his hat brim, and then continued, "I've only ever trusted Clea, and that took years, but I know beyond a doubt, if anyone can find this accomplice...it will be you. Sleep tight and get well, I miss my right arm...my...friend."

Lestrade closed the door and leaned on it. "Please, John, do get well."

He replaced his hat and descended.

* * *

**Story Notes:** As it happens, France is responsible for many advancements in forensic science. Alphonse Bertillion was real, C Aguste Dupin was not. However, Dupin is considered the first Detective character, indeed the genre did not exist before Murders in the Rue Morgue, which makes him at the very least the father of Sherlock Holmes. Since we are dwelling in the dual world of ACD where a fictitious character can write his own adventures and publish as himself, then adding Dupin in was not too far of a stretch!

That being said, I am as shocked as anyone that Doctor Georges St. Cloud turned out to be tolerable!

I wonder if he learned that smack down technique from Doctor Watson? I rather think he did. :)

**Bart**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Notes: **This chapter has been brewing for a while. I have been trying to seed this installment with clues, I admit to being a little wary that most will have figured out the twist before it hits, but I am hoping that I pulled a sixth sense...DUH...out of my hat.

That being said it was a very emotionally touch chapter...I have put Watson through a lot this time around, but somehow this is the worst yet. The man has a heart as big as all outdoors, which makes it somewhat fragile at the same time, he can take a lot of punishment to his body, and a lot of opostion metally, but when it comes to hurting someone, he bleeds and is vulnerable.

Lestrade gets a bit of home time, which I enjoyed writing, and as always his banter with the Doc is fun.

As for Alister Eads, I have never written a character I hate more...you'll understand why. That includes James Watson btw...who disgustingly has grown on me somewhat.

I hope you have fun with this, I hope I manage a few suprises. See ya back here next time!

**Bart  
**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Eight**

Lestrade was not sure later how he got home.

Soon after he left Baker Street the strain of the day caught up with him, he was not the same tireless young man he used to be.

That day had been one of the longest of his life. It had started out with one of the biggest shocks he could ever remember encountering early that morning, then came the weight of Watson's health concerns for most of that day, the tense meeting with Alister Eads, the political mechanizations just to keep that monster in Newgate, it was all a bit much for this old Yarder.

He was literally sleepwalking by the time he arrived to his South End home, and into Clea's waiting arms.

"Oh, Giles, look atcha, let's get you inside," she fussed as she ushered him in. She had learned a long time ago to let him decide what he could talk about, so she set about making him comfortable, feeding him the slow simmering stew that she always made when his time of arrival was in doubt, giving him that shoulder rub he had been desperately needing.

Lestrade tore off a piece of the black bread and sopped up that last savoury bit as he told her of his day.

Clea sat down across from him, her forehead wrinkled in empathy as he mentioned Watson's sorry state, and she chuckled when he told her of Mrs. Hudson's solution.

"You don't find her drugging John appalling?" She shook her head. "Giles, believe me when I tell ya this, I've done more underhanded things than that over the years to see ta yer health, and that of our brood."

Lestrade felt his eyes narrow. "What are you referring to, woman?"

"Wouldn't you like ta know." She remarked with a snort of derision. With no further elaboration, she slapped his knee. "Now when yer through, go build a fire in tha grate, I'll get a comforter and we'll get cosy."

Lestrade in spite of his weariness gave her his special smile. "What do you have in mind?"

She kissed his forehead as she made to clean the kitchen. "Now look whose tha presumptuous bloke?"

He gave her apron a tug as she went by, but she slapped his hand away.

The rest of the night managed to take his mind off his troubles. Later as they enjoyed the comfort of each other by the fire, the thought of the next day slipped back in like an early spring fog. "I don't know if we can figure this out, Clea, with Holmes or a healthy John Watson I'd be sure of it, but John could barely stand today."

She looked up into his eyes with that little sly curl of lip that made him want to kiss her every time. "Did John promise Eads that he would hang?"

Lestrade nodded.

She rolled her eyes. "John Watson always keeps his word, you know that."

"I know he'll try, but sweetheart, I don't think I've ever seen a person push themselves as hard as he did today. How much is he going to have left tomorrow?"

She traced his moustache with her finger. "Do ya think that makes him less dangerous?"

Lestrade kissed her hand. "No, it will probably make him more determined."

"You know it." She said settling into his arms. "Now, less talk, Mister Lestrade, more cosy."

"Yes Ma'am."

**---**

Lestrade arrived at the Yard the next day determined to figure this conundrum out on his own.

He was sure if the Yarders put their minds to the task, this accomplice would not escape them. His rebellious mind brought up the hellish month that Alister Eads was stalking the Eastgate area, how they had gathered and collaborated but the bodies still kept turning up. That feeling of impotence began a return engagement in his heart, but he forced back into the corner.

He was not the only Yarder wanting to take their turn.

He arrived to find a contingent of inspectors and some milling PC's gathered around a chalk board pulled in to the centre of the room. Patterson was already there, without a word he held out a steaming mug of black tea to Lestrade.

"It's about time you got out of bed, Gilesy, we've been here an hour," He remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

Lestrade gave him the ill-tempered look he was petitioning for, and then nodded at the board. "What do we have so far?"

Hopkins was seated nearby, he flipped open his pad.

"We think the bloke is local to Eastgate, knew Genny Bisset and her condition, was in contact with Eads somehow, we've sent a PC to Newgate to get a copy of the visitation records..."

"Add to the board that the fellow is young and impressionable, is an artist of some sort, knows angles of light and presentation and taught them to Eads, he not only knew Genny, but he was in love with her, and this was a mercy killing. That's all Doctor Watson has worked out so far, he got Eads to confirm at least that much," Lestrade called. Gregson, who had the chalk gave him a look of distaste for taking over, but then set about the job.

Patterson leaned in. "I heard about the hearing, did Hopkins and that Frenchy actually give the barrister that much cheek?"

Lestrade chuckled. "You had to be there, we lost the point though."

"Not yet, we haven't," Patterson remarked with a confident tone.

---

They bantered back and forth for the next three hours. PC's where sent out on errands, Lestrade winced at the use of available workforce, but that did not stop him from pulling in extra help from other shifts.

The Newgate visitor's log was a dead end when it became apparent that members of "The Bedlow Group" had mailed several letters for Eads, their cooperation was not likely.

Hopkins went to question Aldric Bisset and his family of six because he was already familiar with them. He discovered that Genny had a fiancé, a childhood love named William Woodbury, and they pursued that lead until he was located.

William and his newlywed wife were in the midst of packing for a Holiday to the Netherlands. The young man looked distraught when he was informed. "We...Genny and I, were engaged for four months when she caught, she was the one who broke the engagement, I could not dissuade her. I cannot fathom that she was murdered." William's new wife showed Hopkins the beautiful little christening dress that Genny had sent them as a wedding present. "She apologized that she would most likely be gone by the time we had a little one to christen, but she wanted to be there in spirit."

Hopkins, back at the Yard reciting the details, delivered that news with a quavering voice. "Who would kill such a girl as this?" he demanded in a harsh tone.

"Someone she was kind to, if she was not such a girl she might still be alive."

They all turned to see Watson, still without a hat, but ably using his cane, helped into the room by Mayweather.

Lestrade felt a sudden sense of trepidation that he had been complicit in Watson's drugging the night before. "How are you feeling, John?"

Watson winced as he lowered himself into a chair nearby. "Not well enough to give you the comeuppance you undoubtedly deserve, if that is what you are wondering, but fear not I am feeling somewhat better."

"I shall settle my affairs in the interim," Lestrade replied in a bored, wry tone.

"What did you mean by, if she was not such a girl?" Patterson asked.

Watson sighed as he shifted in the chair to a more comfortable angle for his injured side. "The man who killed her felt he was returning a kindness, I don't feel that she would even know his name, he probably watched her deteriorate from a far and it ate at him, not because they were acquainted, but because his love would never be requited. Genny Bisset was kind to others equally, but for someone who has known no kindness; her actions would have caused him to believe a relationship existed. Someone who has other friends, or the social skills to make them, would not have been vulnerable to such a man as Alister Eads."

He held a hand out to Mayweather, who handed him the packet of photographs that Lestrade gave him the night before. "These are copies of the five crime scene photos that Rollins made for me; he increased them in size at my request, included was the print of Genny Bisset's dead body."

Upon his orders, they pinned them up so all could view, Genny Bisset last in the order. The frozen images were nearly overwhelming together.

Watson picked up his cane with his uninjured left arm and pointed to them. "Can you see the two that do not belong? They will begin to speak if you look at them all together."

His words sounded ominous and supernatural, but when Lestrade backed away to his side and looked at them all simultaneously he saw to what Watson was alluding.

"The first and the last, they are different."

Watson nodded as if he was complimenting a star pupil. "Go on."

"In the first picture, the victim..."

"Beverly O'Connell," Watson reminded.

"Missus O'Connell was not posed very well, she looked like someone just dumped her onto the ground, dripped the blood and left, the light in the photograph was not the best even with the lanterns and flash powder."

"That first picture looks more like my victim," Patterson interjected.

"Right," Lestrade acknowledged then continued, "in the middle four, the light is much better, they were posed instead of dumped, but obviously not with care, there are limbs left in awkward angles and the eyes were left open showing the haemorrhages from strangulation."

"And then with Genny," Watson encouraged.

"She was posed carefully, her eyes shut, the light and angle is perfect, there is even that steeple cross shadow on her bosom, showing that someone knew of her faith and cared enough to pose her in a way they thought she would have approved," Lestrade finished.

Suddenly, Lestrade recalled something about the previous morning, some nebulous inkling, but he could not grasp it.

"The accomplice became involved after that first murder, and this last victim was his alone," Gregson blurted with a look of surprise on his face.

"An accomplice with an artistic sensibility that Eads does not have," Hopkins remarked chewing his bottom lip in thought.

Watson nodded. "This is all I have so far, which is little more than we already possess. It does give us a timeline to work with."

They went around a few more times before lunch but made no more headway.

They decided to take lunch.

Watson and Lestrade were left alone as the assemblage broke up, Mayweather was around somewhere not immediately apparent.

"Tell me the truth, how are you really?" Lestrade inquired with some caution.

Watson met his gaze with no hesitation. "I am better, Giles, I still have a fever, but I was able to hold my breakfast this morning, my mind is as sharp as it ever is, I will not be a hindrance."

"A hindrance..." Lestrade repeated with derision, "You are closer to this man than any of us, just by looking at some pictures."

Watson looked deeply troubled. "I'm afraid I cannot claim credit, I was aided by another man's suggestion."

Lestrade felt some concern for his friend's demeanour. "Oh?"

"Alister Eads all but told me what to look for," Watson informed, "I believe he wants us to capture this accomplice."

Lestrade startled. "That would mean he wants to die."

Watson nodded his thoughts distant. "He has no care for life, which includes his own; I don't believe that Alister ever lost control yesterday. You said yourself that the man had been stable since capture why would that change now?"

Lestrade felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the room. "He's still playing his game."

Watson sighed. "We thought we were his opponents, but as it happens, we might just be pawns."

"I think you blokes are missing tha point."

Mayweather came back into their line of sight causing Lestrade to start. "How does he do that?" Lestrade hissed under his breath to Watson. Watson sighed, "I wish I knew." Speaking louder he called to Mayweather. "Go on, what is this point we are missing?"

"The point is," Mayweather began with a patient tone, "a man can be a good man and do an awful thing for what he thinks are good reasons, or he can be a bad man who does a good thing for bad reasons, the end result is what's important, not the motive."

Lestrade turned to Watson, they both raised eyebrows. "That made absolutely no sense," Watson remarked to Mayweather, "Go away...find someone to terrorize."

The younger man just shrugged and gave Watson that empty little smile.

"So, what do you want for lunch?" Lestrade asked as an aside.

"Not soup," Watson replied with a lopsided grin.

Lestrade snapped his fingers as if there was a plan foiled.

**---**

They sat to eat lunch in the northwest corner of Hyde Park, at Watson's insistence. Mayweather was not happy but he allowed it after a standoff with his obstinate charge.

It was indeed a very nice early summer day, and the warmth of the sun was helping Watson's sudden bought of tremors diminish. He and Lestrade settled in with the sack of meat pastries they bought at the corner bakery.

Watson nibbled on one but for the most part watched the couples and children enjoying the day.

"Do you ever wish you could be one of them?" he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade leaned back and followed his gaze. "Who?"

Watson nodded toward the milling public, "The people who go through their daily life without knowing their peril. Without knowing that monsters walk among them in the clothing of normalcy, monsters like Alister Eads."

Lestrade felt of Watson's forehead. "Your fever is making you maudlin, old boy."

Watson glowered at him until he moved his hand. "I asked because I would like to know," he insisted.

"I guess I've never really thought about it," Lestrade said with a shrug, "I raised three children in this city while wading through the filth, and the nastiness all day long, if you stop to consider what is out there, you'd never let your family leave the house."

Watson smiled. "You are right, I am being maudlin, I tried being normal and oblivious like them, a husband and a doctor only, but Mary knew the truth."

"That is," Lestrade encouraged.

Watson winced as he shifted. "The truth is, some lives were meant to be lived touched by violence, so that others might never know it."

Lestrade sighed. "What brought these thoughts on, might I ask?"

Watson closed his eyes in thought, composing his feelings into words, "I grow weary of this gift, Giles, this ability to empathize, it is a burden that weighs heavily on me today. I can see this young man, not his face, but I feel as if I know him already. He is in a lot of emotional pain, but he's very good at hiding in plain sight. I know he is a killer, but I pity him."

Lestrade reached out and gently grasped John's shoulder. "So, don't bear this burden alone, tell me what you are feeling, I'll give you what meagre help that is mine to offer,"

"I keep going back to the fact that he is an artist, he observes, he watches as a spectator, not a participant, until now," Watson informed a sigh.

"What sort of artist, painting, drawing, one of those blokes that do sketches?"

Watson shook his head, "there are other mediums..."

Watson's eyes popped open, he murmured, "Oh you bastard...we need to get back to the Yard, Giles."

Lestrade saw a terrible realization on his friend's face, one that made him wonder if he really wanted to know the truth, but he dutifully packed the lunch, waving Mayweather to come help.

**---**

The newly reassembled group was already back in deep discussion about the current conundrum when Watson and Lestrade returned.

Watson had a package under his arm from a stop he and Lestrade had made on the way back.

They were discussing local artists in the Eastgate area, but most were middle aged, the one that was not was an incurable womanizer. That chap did not fit the profile they had already established but they had sent a PC to get his alibi, whoever she might be.

Lestrade let Watson take the floor, he still did not know what the man had figured out, but he was standing by to give him aid if he needed it.

"Gentleman I may have discovered our accomplice, but I need some expert help," Watson announced cutting into the discussion. They all went quiet, their eyes expectant. To a man, there were no sceptical glances but simple faith in whatever Watson would say next.

"Can someone find me an artist as quick as possible?" he inquired.

Hopkins hopped off the desk where he was sitting with Bradstreet. "Rollins is in the darkroom, as good as he is at photography, he qualifies as an artist, I'll be right back."

Someone offered Watson a chair but the man refused, his jaw clenched, under some weight that he would not share.** (8)  
**

Rollins followed Hopkins back into the room; he was wiping his hands on a cloth. "What would you like to know?"

There was a look of absolute misery on Watson's face. "I would like to know why, Harold."

Rollins went very still. "Why?"

Watson held up the package pulling off the paper, it was a framed photograph of the Bisset family. "Photography is one of the newest art forms, there is no school for it, you have to take an apprenticeship, and your uncle owns a portrait studio where you learned your craft. Before he unexpectedly put you out on the street, he saw a sudden upsurge in success. Aldric told me that he wanted the best photographer in the city to take their portrait; more than one satisfied customer of your uncle's told him that he needed to get the quiet younger man that worked for him to take the picture. He said that he remembered that the young man had a stammer, and Genny was very kind to him."

The room was very quiet, they were all in shock, and some seem to be hoping that Rollins would deny Watson's allegations. The sheer misery and compassion on Watson's face showed he halfway hoped he was wrong as well.

Harold ended the speculation.

"No one sees me, not my parents or brothers and sisters, not my uncle, except as a threat, no one at the Yard. Even when I took portraits and the subjects stared right through me, I was just a camera," he said little more than a whisper, in the quiet he was easily heard.

"She saw you," Watson encouraged.

Harold nodded, "She smiled at me, looked at me, said she was sure the picture would be perfect, when they came for the prints she took one look and gave me a hug. I've never been hugged in my life, after twelve children, my mother just didn't care anymore," he confessed with a sob.

Bradstreet walked over and put a big bear like arm around Harold's narrow shoulders. "Go on, it will help," he said giving the young man a squeeze.

Watson nodded his agreement. "Alister?" he prodded.

Harold seemed to draw strength from Bradstreet. He spoke in a stronger voice, "Alister was in the crowd at that first scene, he saw some Constables dismiss my importance, tell me to get it done so they could go off shift, he followed me home, asked to see my work, he told me who he really was. I was terrified but then he told me that my crime scene photographs would be seen all over the world, like Matthew Brady, he told me that all he wanted me to do was teach him how to turn the bodies so they catch the light. That's all. I wouldn't be doing the killing, just giving him some advice; he told me that I could turn him in anytime I wanted to..."

"He did not seem like a killer..." Watson stated for Harold drawing him out.

Harold shook his head. "He talked about my photography, he was amazed at how they turned out, he encouraged me to do other things, and he said he believed in me. He knew how I would sometimes follow Genny, just to see her, and after she caught, he offered to make her a victim so she wouldn't suffer needlessly. I asked him to leave her alone; he told me that if I really loved her, I would not want her to be in pain...he told me a way to make sure she died as painlessly as possible. He told me I could blame it on him, it was his gift to me. He kept sending me these letters asking how she was, encouraging me to do the right thing by her, that all she was doing was suffering because I wasn't strong enough to do what was necessary. He said when I finally gave in, and delivered her from her pain I would know the truth..."

Harold broke down in racking sobs. "He was right...I know...he lied...she was alive...and I killed her...she was always nice to me...and I killed her!"

The Yarders all stood around they stared at the floor as Harold cried quietly.

Watson walked over to Harold, he bent down with some effort and looked into the young man's teary eyes. "You made a mistake, you can't changed that now, but you can still do the right thing for Genny, for her family, Eads used you because he knew it would hurt us, show him that you are still a Yarder, we will take care of you, this is not the end."

Harold wiped his eyes and nodded.

"I'll take him to the judge," Bradstreet declared.

Hopkins stepped up, "I'll go with them."

Lestrade still deep in shock managed to nod at them both, "Don't bother with the irons, bring him back here after, he will not be locked up with the animals if I can help it."

They all began to disperse; Gregson was wiping off the chalkboard in a disconsolate manner.

"He took Harold right out from under us, and wanted us to know it," Lestrade concluded.

Watson suddenly lost strength and nearly collapsed to the floor, but Lestrade caught him.

Mayweather was with him the next instant, helping him into a chair, Patterson hovered nearby, concerned.

"I think I am done, Giles," Watson remarked, "I am going home."

Lestrade nodded. "Baker Street?"

Watson shook his head. "Not for three years now." He held a trembling hand to his forehead. "I think my fever broke," he remarked with an ironic chuckle.

"Thank you for your help, John, go home, get well," Lestrade ordered.

Watson reached out a hand and grasped Lestrade's shoulder, "It is not over, Alister will be in touch, he's still got one last move to make."

Lestrade nodded in agreement. "I am relying on it."

* * *

**Story Notes: **Matthew Brady was a famed American photographer who collected battlefield photographs and went broke for his work, but upon his penniless death achieved world wide fame in one of those great consistent artistic ironies. Photography was seen in a more utilitarian capacity and the people who became photographers had to be apprentices first, no widespread affordable schools for Photography existed at this time.

Harold reminds me of so many persons who fall through the cracks, we are around them everyday, they perform a service but we really never meet them even after years. Who knows how desperately lonely the person beside you is, we learn to hide in plain sight sometimes, the Yard is so used to fighting outside forces that they have a blind spot when it comes to their own numbers, this happens a lot with police forces when one of their own is a suspect they tend be difficult to convince.

I hope this answers any questions that arise!

thanks!

**(8)** Picture of a distraught Watson in the profile!

**Bart**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Notes: **This Chapter was a chore. I seem to have an epic on my hands here. LOL! To tell the truth when I first conceptionalized this installment I thought it might not be large or grand enough for the series, then it grew with characters coming out of the woodwork, then the Yard got involved ect...yep it's officially an epic LOL!

Alister Eads finally gives you an idea of the slimy underpinnings that make him who he is in this chapter, one of the ickiest things I have ever written, fortunately I had some Watson/Lestrade fun to sort me out LOL!

I think there are some unexpected surprises in this chapter as well, some events that bring mysteries into relief but not all...that would not be me to show whats up both sleeves!

For those who speculate that every chapter is the end of this installment...no there is one chapter more.

**WARNING:** If speak Gaelic, there is an actual Gaelic insult in this chapter that you might find disturbing LOL!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Nine**

Lestrade was walking once again through the steel barriers of Newgate, this time accompanied by the fevered shouts of reporters. Anger surged up from nowhere and he had to resist the sudden urge to give them more of a story than they anticipated.

He had been working on the paper work of Harold's arrest, an arduous task to be sure when the summons he and Watson had been expecting came through his door.

It was customary for a convicted murderer to get a visit from a representative of Scotland Yard the night before his death; it was almost as cliché as the priest that inevitably came by, Lestrade had made that visit himself more than once. With the death of a killer is also the passing of an opportunity to solve any murders that the man or women had carried out. Closure for the families was a priority at that point, there was not much to offer in the way of compensation considering that the killer was a day from the fitting of the hemp necktie, but in the way of a clear conscious, some did confess.

Lestrade and Watson had discussed it before his friend left for home.

-

"I have a feeling that Alister is just getting started. I don't think we have taken his full measure yet, but he's going to reveal his true self shortly, it will be his last chance to let us know just how awful he really is." Watson had remarked resting his chin and hands on his cane thoughtfully.

Lestrade sighed. "He humiliated us, John, he took one of our own and turned him into an accomplice, a murderer, and we never had the first clue. What more can he do to the Yard that he has not already done?"

Watson's tired eyes met his own. "Don't ask questions that you really don't want the answer to, Giles."

**-**

Lon was too busy to meet Lestrade so he was ushered down to the deathwatch by the Vice Administrator of the prison, and nervous little man named Turner.

Soon he was in that all too neat prison cell. Alister had his back turned writing letters, Lestrade was happy to see it was with a heavily bandaged hand.

"If you will be patient a moment longer, Chief Inspector, I'm finishing up here."

Lestrade took a seat, very unusual for a prisoner to have more than one chair, but Lestrade had a hunch that this prisoner had some very powerful visitors to accommodate.

Alister finished the letter, sealed it in the envelope, and then turned to Lestrade. "I am so sorry, it was rude of me to summon you here then make you wait, but alas I have very little time left and a lot of plans to bring to fruition."

Lestrade was diplomatic. "No doubt."

Alister smiled. "I am assuming, since I am due to die tomorrow, Harold confessed finally? I honestly thought he would do it earlier."

"Why did you not just tell us who he was, rather than go through that elaborate deception just to give Watson the clue about the photos? How's the hand by the way?" Lestrade inquired crossing his legs as nonchalantly as possible.

Alister chuckled as he held up the bandaged appendage. "It was one of the most painful events of my life, and my hand is still sore. Be sure to thank Watson's bodyguard. To answer your other query, I was not going to turn in Harold; he had his own path to follow. Far be it from me to interfere with someone else's journey. There is no need to fear his motives, Chief Inspector, Harold was not trying to escape judgement, he just does not want to face the family. All that suffering over a female, it's all rather ridiculous if you ask me."

Lestrade braced himself for what was to come. "We know it's all a ruse, Harold, the Pattern, the Quaker faith, the misogyny, all of it, so why don't we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to why I am really here."

Lestrade was not sure what he expected, glowing red eyes, a sudden sprout of demonic horns and wings. Anything but what did happen.

Alister began to laugh; it was not an evil laugh, or one that was even ironic, just an explosion of good-natured mirth.

"I am so sorry, dear Lestrade," he managed to say between sniggers. "You think you know, but you still have no idea."

Lestrade, extremely discomfited by the outburst, managed to say, "Enlighten me."

Alister smiled as if recounting a favourite memory, "You must forgive my engaging in a bit of burlesque, you see, it is expected that someone have a motive for murder, reasoning or madness. I have none of those things, I just enjoy killing, always have."

Lestrade tried not to show how chilled he was by this admission, he nodded encouragingly, unfortunately, Alister was beyond needing a spur.

"My first human kill was in the orphanage, a boy who was brought there temporarily, lost on the streets of London, he cried for his mum all night long, so I took a pillow and made him quiet. I was thirteen. I don't even know his name, but it was no matter. Once you get over that obstacle of the first one, it becomes ever so much easier, soon the orphanage had a rash of unexplained deaths and shut down. Turned out to make my way on the streets when I was fifteen, I found that drunks were easy prey, then émigré in the country illegally, who was going to report their disappearances, I might as well have gone back to killing animals for all the attention those deaths caused."

"You liked the attention?" Lestrade ventured.

Alister blinked for a moment, as if he was coming back from whatever place he had gone in his mind during the recollections. "Well I suppose, after that amateur butcher over in Whitechapel made that noise, I realized that I needed to refine my methods, gain a trade mark that was both memorable and macabre, with just a touch of theatre."

"The red tear on the cheek."

"I got the idea from a Scaramouch mask," Alister admitted, "I was already working on the pathology, the whole message from God, misogyny angle, strangling women with the ribbon."

"Like a choker," Lestrade prodded.

Alister smiled. "You figured it out!"

Lestrade shook his head. "Inspector Patterson did."

"Yes, John Patterson, he's a great man," Alister confirmed with a fond smile.

Lestrade studied the prisoner for some sign of irony or sarcasm. "You bear him no ill will?"

Alister looked astonished. "Oh no, Giles, I bear no one ill will."

Lestrade shook his head to clear it of stray thoughts. "Alister, you kill people, you corrupted Harold Rollins to commit murder; you are manipulating all of those Bedlow people."

Alister shuddered. "You want to meet an evil man; you should have known Gustav Bedlow! He scared even me."

"How can you say you bear no one ill will," Lestrade reiterated, trying to be patient.

Alister shook his head giving Lestrade that little placating smile. "I said what I mean, Lestrade, I bear mankind as much ill will as a Lion does an antelope on the Serengeti, or a Shark does a school of fish in the Atlantic, I am a predator, mankind was my prey, it would be absolutely absurd for me to attach any kind of grudge or bias to my actions. I'm not a bad fellow, I just happen to be someone who likes to kill. You call that evil, I make no such differentiation."

Lestrade shook his head in disgust. "Why am I here, Alister, I am assuming you have some confession to make, other than the bile I've been subjected to so far."

Alister cocked his head to one side his face curious. "You really are disgusted, that is quite fascinating. I thought you had seen enough death to understand how the world truly functions."

"Alister, if you do not tell me why I am here I am walking out right now," Lestrade stood to go.

"I want you to stand out of the way and let tomorrow happen. That is all, Inspector, just do nothing," he said in a placating manner, as if he were talking to a child.

"Let what happen, precisely?" Lestrade asked his voice thick with suspicion as he sat back down.

Alister smiled. "Why, my death, Chief Inspector, I see no reason you would object to that event happening."

Lestrade knew there was a catch, he was almost afraid to ask. "What exactly are you planning?"

"Oh, well there will be members of the psychological establishment from Belgium, believe it or not I happen to be a significant advancement in man's understanding of the criminal mind," Alister replied his eyes lighting up with some personal excitement, "that book Bedlow was working on, it is going to be very important for years to come."

Lestrade was beginning to see the grand scheme. "You want to be famous."

Alister laughed. "Oh no, I want to be infamous which is much longer lasting. All of the new publicity surrounding the Red Tear Strangler because of the events of this week, culminated with Gustav's research and my demise in their viewing, I will be talked about for years to come."

"All I would have to do is raise an objection, because the families of your victims deserve to see you hang," replied Lestrade, his voice betraying just how appalled he was.

Alister rolled his eyes. "The dead are dead, what is the importance of them seeing me hang when compared to the importance of advancing men's knowledge of their own depravity."

"But you don't care about that, you've been lying to them all alone, they are understanding nothing by watching you die, the research is moot," Lestrade said with a sputter of words.

Alister laughed. "You know that, and I know that, but it's irrelevant, there are no losers in this enterprise. They get their advancement, they get to rewrite the texts on the criminally insane, and I get the notoriety that I could not accomplish in my entire life, and even you get something, call it a parting gift."

Lestrade was not sure he wanted anything this monster was willing to give him, but he had to know. "Tell me."

Alister gave him a list that he had on his desk, there were thirty-two names on it. "Those are the victims I could recall, a paltry amount I'm afraid, but I will give you a confession that covers them all. Their families get closure, and you get a feather in your cap, assuring you that Superintendant position you have always coveted is yours, and all you have to do is nothing."

Lestrade felt like a diabolical contract fell to his hand from the talons of the devil himself. He nearly dropped it in his disgust.

"It has already been settled, at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, I will be led to the gallows. They will give me the opportunity to say my last words, which will be quite memorable between you and I, and I will die. The administrator has it all scheduled in his wall safe, the next person to see that document is the hangman and the clerk in charge. All of the major newspapers will be there, and all you have to do is nothing, this is not a serious difficulty I am asking of you. Your conscious will eventually soothe," Alister said in a concerned tone of voice as if he was distressed with Lestrade's reticence.

"And if I object?" Lestrade inquired.

Alister shrugged. "There will only be five families given closure by tomorrow's event, the rest will always wonder. If I don't see a gallery full with the press represented, I will not be signing any documents tomorrow, Giles, I have to be a man of my word, if a man does not have his honour, what is he?"

Lestrade arose abruptly and headed for the door giving it a bang to summon the guard, he would not be privy to listening to this lunatic any longer.

"I will see you tomorrow, Giles, sleep well," Alister called, his voice dripping with sincerity.

Lestrade did not respond.

He kept silent all through the halls and gates, once he reached the door; he walked to the alleyway and vomited. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he thought back to Watson's sickness in that alleyway, that illness was an infection of the body, Lestrade felt as if his very soul needed purging. Try as he might, he could not see a way out of the labyrinth that Alister had created.

He felt a determination rise within him. He could not outsmart Eads, but he knew a man who might.

---

He rang the bell at Watson's Kensington address.

It was answered by a very irritated red-haired lady that Lestrade knew as the cook. "So, ya knew tha Doctor Watson waz sick, and ya did nuthin about it, Inspector? Jes let him gallivant around tha city runnin' a fever? An yer callin yerself his friend?" she demanded in her thick Irish brogue.

"I'm sorry Aileen, I honestly did not know he was sick until he showed up at a crime scene barely able to stand," he responded in the tone he used to divert Clea from acts of violence.

"Tha stubborn arse is in tha parlour, canna git you sum tea or summat?"

Lestrade smiled relieved the storm had passed. "That would be splendid, thank you, Missus McClellan."

She rolled her eyes, "Jes thank me by na draggin him out ta'night, he's still a bit peaked."

He nodded his agreement as she turned in a huff and went into the living quarter's side of the practice.

Lestrade entered the familiar practice office and found a healthier looking Watson scribbling away at his desk, in his robe and nightshirt, he had a fire going and his service revolver on the desk near his right hand, he did not seem to notice his visitor.

"I'll be with you in a moment Lestrade, I have a deuced amount of paperwork at hand," Watson remarked with a sly smile.

_Of course he noticed._

Lestrade pointed to Watson's revolver. "Are you expecting to repel invaders?

Watson gave him a smile that could mean anything or nothing. "Are you here for a visit, or did you just wish to see how long you can irritate me before I put a bullet into your hind parts?" **(9)**

"No worries, dear chap, I just stopped by for a bit of advice," Lestrade responded taking the chair across.

Watson glanced up idly scratching the side of his nose with the end of his pen. "Concerning," he inquired.

Lestrade sighed. "Alister Eads."

Watson nodded as if he had expected as much. "Gave you his manifesto and list of demands, did he? Tell me, how many did he offer to confess to?"

Lestrade found he was not surprised at Watson's seeming foreknowledge, he found it comforting that the man was so far ahead of the game, it confirmed that his decision to bring him aboard was a wise one.

"Thirty-two, but I was led to believe that was just a start, you suspected as much I take it?"

Watson nodded, "I assumed that there were more, but thirty-two was beyond my worst fears; please fill me in on the rest."

Watson sat in silence listening to his friend with his chin resting in his intertwined fingers.

As Lestrade finished, Watson sat in silence. "You are incorrect in one assumption, Lestrade, I cannot outwit Alister, he has been planning this moment for quite some time."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"However," Watson stated as he stood and walked to his large bookshelf, "there was this one chap a few hundred years ago who had it all sorted, I think we'll take some of his advice."

"Who?" Lestrade inquired feeling that familiar cinder of anger. When someone showed just how illiterate he was, he rarely felt that with Watson, maybe he was just tired.

Watson flipped in a red leather bound volume for a few moments before settling on a page. "Sun Tzu was the fellow's name, no one knew warfare like this bloke, required reading for warmongers the world over, and will be from now to the end, most likely."

He paused, his suddenly grave eyes found Lestrade's. "I have to ask, Giles, as a friend, if we interfere with this we will be upsetting the plans of some very vindictive and powerful persons, even if we are careful, the scale of the strategy I am proposing is going to show our hand, that will make you a likely candidate for retribution."

Lestrade knew that was a possibility, he realized that he had known this for a few days deep down. "Don't lose your nerve old boy, you might be an insufferable lout at times, but I never suspected a cowardly streak."

Watson smiled the crooked grin. "Says the man who cannot tell a woman who barely stands taller than his waist anything but yes ma'm."

Lestrade shrugged. "If you want to speak of vindictive streaks, I believe that little lady makes the nobility in question look amaturish."

Watson sniffed good-naturedly. "Coward."

Lestrade waved him off as if that was of no consequence. "So what does this Soo character have to say?"

"All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him," Watson read.

Lestrade laughed. "You confidence man, here I was thinking how brilliant you were on that day with that Holmes impostor, and you were following the advice of some ancient dead general with a funny name!"

"I never professed to be brilliant, Lestrade, all my intelligence comes by association, I claim no genius as my own," Watson admitted, sitting on the edge of his desk wincing at a sudden pang of pain in his side as he settled.

Lestrade shook his head at the man's density. "I'll not attempt to argue the matter with you; I would be far more effective arguing with that book in your hand. So, if I heard correctly, we give him what he wants, or at least seem to?"

Watson nodded, "He wants a gallery full, Lestrade, so let's oblige him."

Lestrade realized what the man was saying. "We would need an army; I can call some Yarders to play, but not enough to accomplish this task."

"Fortunately, I keep an army around, whether I want it or not," Watson responded with a wry smile.

Almost on cue Missus McClellan burst into the parlour, she was escorting a smiling little waif, his hands sticky and his mouth suspiciously rimmed with white frosting.

"Yes ya did!" She bellowed.

"No I dint!" he replied in a most offended voice.

"Charlie, if you are going to deny something, try to make sure you are not wearing the evidence," Watson informed in a patient tone, indicating the mouth and fingers.

The unrepentant little shaver licked the frosting off his fingers and comically tried to lick if off the outside of his mouth.

"I'll have yer tea inna bit, Inspector, if you'll keep the wee beastie outa my hair, Doctor," she complained.

Watson winked at Charlie. "Forgive me, Missus McClellan, but I have work for the entire gang, they will be here shortly, I will of course double your pay for the evening."

She threw her hands up in the air and left uttering, "Go gcreime cúnna ifrinn do bhall fearga!"

Lestrade whistled. "I hope you keep that gun under your pillow, she's in fine temper!"

Watson winced. "She's not the worst one; I have a high tempered Spanish maid to deal with tomorrow after the boys get through with the place,"

"Coward," Lestrade replied with a genial sniff.

"Waz this 'bout some work?" Charlie asked, his blue eyes sparkling with adventure to come.

Watson nodded, "Get the lads."

Charlie took off with a whoop and was out the door in seconds.

Lestrade watched as Watson rounded his desk and settled back in to his chair with a barely restrained grunt. "We need Mayweather for this next bit; he's at the Club keeping Mycroft in the loop as to my condition.

"I'm back."

Before Lestrade could turn around, Watson had his pistol in his hand and the hammer cocked.

Lestrade followed the line of the gun, Mayweather was leaning against the wall, and he had a glimmer of what might have been respect as he showed his hands empty.

"Mayweather, I don't want to bloody up that bowler, so announcing yourself when I am armed is the safest course, agreed?" Watson remarked in a cold steady tone.

Mayweather grinned and nodded.

The click as Watson put the safety back on and backed the hammer was loud in the suddenly tense room.

"Newgate Prison, I believe you studied it when we visited Mister Eads just the other day?" Watson asked as he replaced the pistol on his desktop.

"What of it?"

Mayweather, given his assignment, left tipping his hat with the same absent smile.

After the door shut behind him, Lestrade saw that there was a fine tremor in Watson's hands. "You came close to ruining Mary's wallpaper, didn't you?"

Watson nodded. "Mayweather has been pushing me since I've somewhat returned to health, I think he wants to test my reflexes and willingness, in his eyes I need to be able to defend myself if need be."

"Isn't he your bodyguard?" Lestrade asked aghast,

Watson nodded. "It is the way of his upbringing; the Maori tribe in New Zealand are a hard people. His mother, taken into slavery by an unscrupulous British ship captain , dumped at the nearest port when she turned up pregnant. Showing remarkable will, she returned to her people with her baby son, something she grew to regret. They challenged the boy as he grew to combat, because of his fairer skin and hair; he fended off warriors twice his age, fighting duals to the death before he was twelve. The fact he survived that long was astounding, they are fierce, well trained fighters, and rumour has it, cannibals."

Lestrade sucked air through his teeth. "How did he wind up working for Diogenes?"

Watson wiped a bead of sweat with a steadier hand. "He was brought to the British embassy by his mother, she had stolen documents and a photo that identified his father, and he resembled the man enough that they accepted him, not knowing that he was a trained killer already. A bloke from the Diogenes Club was in residence, Augustus Mayweather, saw something in the lad, adopted him, and taught him to be a gentleman and not a savage. He was the closest thing to a father Algon ever knew. Charon killed him because Augustus signed the registry at the Hotel as A. Mayweather, but he was after Algon."

"I thought you did not know anything but what was in that letter," Lestrade needled with a smile.

Watson shrugged. "I tried asking him, he was surprisingly forthcoming."

Lestrade glanced at the door. "Can he break into Newgate Prison? That office might have the best security in the city outside of the Royal Family."

Watson nodded. "Holmes fixed the leaks that were from the inside out, but he said there were vulnerabilities if you were attempting to break in."

They heard the pattering sound of a pack of running feet in the lane outside.

"Let's get down to some deception, shall we?" Watson said with a sly smile.

Lestrade was sure it mirrored the smile on his own face.

**---**

Alister Eads was so excited the next day, that Lestrade had trouble keeping the man focused. "I am sorry, Giles, but this is the culmination of a life time of effort," he remarked, "Surely you won't begrudge me a little restlessness."

They stood outside of the death chamber; they could hear the milling throng and the ominous thumping sound of the gallows tested.

Alister signed the last of the documents with a trembling hand.

Lestrade met him just a few minutes previous, the man was glancing through the doorway making sure there was a crowd was in place, and he saw Agatha Weems, so the press was present. All was as it was supposed to be, so he went through with the confessions.

"Wish me luck."

"The first thousand years of torment in Hell, be sure to think of me, " Lestrade remarked wryly.

Alister chuckled.

As they led Alister through the door, Lestrade followed close behind.

The condemned man glanced around with increasing consternation.

"Where are the Bedlows and their colleagues?" he demanded.

Lestrade had been waiting for this moment. "Oh they are attending the nine o'clock hanging of a longshoreman who murdered his partner over a card game. I am told his language is quite atrocious, his last words should be memorable."

Alister turned and hissed, "You lied to me."

Lestrade smiled. "I did everything you told me to do; the nine o'clock hanging has not been tampered with. Fortunately, this is the seven o'clock."

The truth was finally occurring to Alister. "Who are these people?"

"They are all of the victim's families that we could locate; it is surprising how many dropped all plans and came to see your neck stretched. Included in that number, the Bisset's whose daughter you talked Harold into killing. They visited Harold last night in his cell, and told him that they forgive him, after I explained to them how you twisted his love for their daughter. They agreed it is what she would have wanted. They are going to speak on his behalf at his hearing in a couple of days, so is most of the Yard, Judge Burkett is the sitting judge so we think there is a chance he will get years in prison and not the gallows."

Alister nodded in Agatha Weem's direction, she was sitting serenely with her pad in her lap. "I can still have my last words recorded. They will not be lost."

"Actually, Agatha wanted me to offer you her sincerest apologies, she said her dreadfully inadequate female memory caused her to leave this morning without a writing instrument."

Alister finally broke, his eyes were desperate when he rounded on Lestrade, "You cannot do this to me!"

Lestrade shrugged off his grasping hands. "Welcome to obscurity, Alister."

The rest of the affair was anti-climatic.

---

Lestrade felt relief as he finished the paperwork. He could not believe that he had made it out of this happening with his career intact. It was not every day you could successfully close thirty-two open cases at one blow; he was enjoying the all too rare victory.

The Yarders were all planning to meet at the Rusty Anchor to celebrate, he was happy to see their spirits revived by Alister's hanging. Harold's confession and arrest struck quite a blow to this unit's heart. One of their family, a little brother, had been taken from them, they all felt a culpability that would last for years.

A PC from upstairs walked in and handed him a summons from the Superintendent.

He sighed. Superintendent Collins would not be happy if the Bedlows decided to wield their considerable influence against the Met, but Lestrade would gladly do it all over again just for Alister's face as they pulled the hood over it.

He was halfway into the office when he realized that Collins was not alone.

The well-dressed man was tall. You could see that even as he sat, his dark hair, perfectly coifed, and he had a perfectly trimmed black beard that made him look distinguished. His tiepin alone was more than Lestrade's salary for a year.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, I'd like to introduce, Sir Alfred FitzRoy.

_This...will end badly_, Lestrade thought to himself as he shook the offered hand.

* * *

**Story Notes: **For those who must know what Missus McClellan said:

"Rinn tu e!" Translation: "Yes you did!"

"Go gcreime cúnna ifrinn do bhall fearga!" Translation: "May Hellhounds gnaw your manly parts!"

For those offended I am sorry but when I ran across that insult...I had to use it LOL!

The quote is from Sun Tzu's Art of War. Watson being around military types for as long as he was would have read the book most likely, I think it explains his knowledge of tatics that he has demonstrated in this series so far. I try not to give Watson an ability or knowledge that he would not have come by honestly, remember this is a Rennaisance man we are talking about. He was world traveled and cultured, but he still remains able to chat with person of little or no education, and I found his contact with little scamp Charlie very heart warming.

I think Missus Mc Clellan shows the exasperation of most who love Doctor Watson but find he hampers their ability to take care of him, most of us can't curse some one in Gaelic though LOL!

As for Algon, I am hoping that the revealation of his heritage does not disappoint, I thought long and hard about his background, and until I watched a documentary show on the Maori tribe and the fierce scary way they conducted their business I did not have handle on the bloke. A man with the visceral anamalistic training of a close to nature native, coupled with a British frame of mind would be a scary man, no? However, I think Watson passed the test!

**(9) **Watson all comfy, first time picture where he does not look like death warmed LOL!

thanks for reading!

One more chapter to go!

Bart


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Notes: **This was a difficult chapter to write because I wanted it to close out this installment in a good way.

It was remarked to me that Chief Inspector Lestrade in cannon never made Superintendent but Hopkins did, I decided that I would give a reason why. This is my foray into Victorian Age politics so I hope I did not write anything that does not ring true. I'm sure someone will tell me LOL!

Once again Watson and Lestrade surprised me...here I am trying to write this long dialogue creating this mutual admiration society but these two Victorian gentlemen refused every attempt at sentimentality exchanging looks of derision at my every attempt, so I put it down like they wanted it. It made for a far shorter scene but one more befitting them I believe, I just wish they would behave me on occasion! SIGH!

This has been the most exhausting of the installments, the most involved and complicated. I have had to research everything from Victorian Age antiseptic techniques to court procedures...I hope this journey has been worth it for you, because I have to say it has been rewarding for me.

As Watson and Lestrade would say: Enough with this chatter, let them read it already!

Once again these are Arthur's boys I just borrowed them.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4**

**The Frozen Image**

**Chapter Ten**

The tension in the room was palpable, but FitzRoy gave no sign of affectation. He was a consummate politician, and as such, Lestrade doubted that he would lose control of his countenance, even at the death of his dearest.

"I was just having a conversation with the Superintendant here on how busy you have been these last few days," FitzRoy explained with a cultured tenor purr.

"Oh?" Lestrade inquired crossing his legs in a matter he hoped insouciant.

"Yes," FitzRoy confirmed, "the matter with Judge Burkett for instance. We had a filing on behalf of Alister Eads for Judge Benedict in place before a criminal court case was even put forth; suddenly Benedict's clerk lost his head over an offer from a certain beautiful actress, one that has been spied in your company."

Lestrade weighed his options and decided on truth, "We had a meeting earlier this week."

FitzRoy nodded in an elegant, howbeit condescending manner, "Then there was this other matter of the hanging schedule being altered after it was locked into the Administrator's safe at Newgate by the Sheriff of London himself, I have no idea as to how that was accomplished."

"Really? I would rather think that impossible." Lestrade remarked trying to show just how shocked the news made him.

Superintendant Collins was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed his face impassive, whatever peril was approaching he was playing the white hare hiding in a snow bank waiting for the wolf to pass. Lestrade sighed; he was on his own, once again.

"I rather think that unlikely since you sent summons out from this very office to family members concerning the earlier hanging time, something impossible without foreknowledge. You managed to remain behind the scene in this fray until that moment. I have to admire the mind at work behind these manoeuvrings, Chief Inspector, for a man of your level of education and refinement, they have been nothing short of astonishing," FitzRoy admitted with his warmest smile, one that showed his perfect teeth.

Lestrade felt icy fingers crawling up his back like a spider made of hoarfrost, his worst fear had just come to pass.

**- **

Years ago, Lestrade and his first partner, an older Yarder named Bartholomew, had witnessed a young man of noble birth pick an apple off a street vendor cart without paying. Lestrade made to confront the gentleman but caught a truncheon in the ribs from his partner. As Lestrade gasped for breath, Bartholomew tipped his hat as the well-dressed boy walked by with a sneer, crunching the purloined fruit. "What did you do that for?" Lestrade sputtered, "We are officers of the law, no one is supposed to be immune!" Bartholomew grabbed his lapels drug him into a nearby alleyway and slammed him against the wall. "There are fishes in this pond, Gilsey, and then there are Leviathans, you, are a small fish, they pick you out of their teeth and go on their way, you don't want them to ever see you. So, keep yer blasted yap shut, tip yer hat and wish them a good day, or yer career will be over before it starts. Don't be a fool, and you might just make it to retirement with your pension intact."

**-**

The irony nearly caused Lestrade to chuckle. _Well, Barty old boy, after all these years of safe navigation, a Leviathan just smiled at me._

"In a way, I have nothing but admiration for you, Lestrade, although I suspect that Doctor John Watson might have had some level of involvement he is somewhat beyond my reach, so my negotiations must be constrained to us," FitzRoy explained in a conversational manner.

Lestrade saw the snare, but this was a path he had no choice but travel. "Negotiations, about what precisely?" he asked in his most innocuous tone.

FitzRoy checked his watch; it was a technique that Lestrade had seen Mycroft use to place him as so insignificant to the proceedings that his involvement was just an entry in a man's schedule. It was a gesture designed to show Lestrade his status as a minor task to deal with annoyance.

Lestrade felt that indignant passionate apolitical young PC rise within him, then again, it could have been Watson's bad influence finally taking hold. He would debate the culprit for years to come.

"Your watch is not something with which you can negotiate, sir, I am, and there is a question on the table yet to be answered," Lestrade informed FitzRoy through gritted teeth.

For the first time, FitzRoy looked nonplussed. "And so there is, Chief Inspector."

Collins stared at Lestrade aghast; the man was so used to political intrigues, to see someone actually speak to nobility in this manner was a jarring novelty to say the least.

"I am here to make an official request for all of the Red Tear files, including any photographs, and am asking for your silence concerning any of Gustave Bedlow's experimental activities as they fall within the realm of doctor patient confidentiality."

Lestrade tensed. He expected many tactics but this was so blatant that he had no immediate answer.

FitzRoy's eyes were cold. "If these requests are not honoured, then I will find other channels that are not so polite."

He gathered his hat and cane and began to leave.

"I thought you were here to negotiate," Lestrade remarked off hand.

FitzRoy paused a moment then with a smile like the one that surely must belong on the face of a shark, replied, "Perhaps negotiation was not the proper word. I apologize for that mistake in terminology. Good day Superintendant...Lestrade."

Upon his departure, Collins literally collapsed; he reached in his desk and poured himself a liberal glass of the cognac, drinking it with a shaky hand.

"Can you help me, Ronald?" Lestrade asked, knowing the answer beforehand.

"I just want you to know, "Collins began, "when I retire, you were going to be my choice..."

Lestrade held up a hand to the man, it was the first time he was ever openly rude to Collins, but he did not want to hear anymore hedging, he had taken all the excuses he could stomach.

"There is no need to explain, Superintendant, if anything this situation has proven to me that I do not have the skills necessary to do your job, after all."

He began to leave but he paused at the door, he turned back to Collins. "There was a time, in my naiveté; I would have given anything to have this office. I now realize that the price is just too high."

"It might cost me this position, Giles, but I will not demote you without cause, I give you my word on it," Collins replied with a spark of his old fire.

Lestrade nodded and left. There were no more words to speak. Something was broken between he and his superior, something that would never mend, further dialogue would only serve to widen the crevasse.

---

Lestrade sat in his office listening to the din in the common room outside, a sound brought a smile to his tired face.

After all, today marked the end of a long arduous journey with the death of their most diabolical opponent yet, the Yard had reason to celebrate and slap each other on the back.

His mind went back to the events of the last week.

He remembered how the Yard closed ranks and supported one another during this ordeal, how even with the apparent return of a monster who they thought was safely tucked away behind bars, they still found time and energy to place a bet on Lestrade's head.

He had to smile at that.

How Watson, ill in body but iron in spirit fought exhaustion, fever and his own rebelling body to stay on the scent and offer invaluable advice and heart. If it were possible, Lestrade found an even deeper admiration for his friend had taken root.

The events of the inquest, Hopkins and his unfailing logic, and pitch perfect dressing down of the barrister, even St. Cloud's able defence of the man who just months before so humiliated him upon their first meeting. Who knew the Frenchman had it in him, or that the foreign bastard had a pedigree that prestigious?

Lestrade felt a pang of sorrow over Harold Rollins, which was one arrest that would haunt him for some time. Harold was right, no one at the Yard saw him. He was there, a steady quiet young man with a gift, but no one that they talked to without business or invited down to the Rusty Anchor for a drink.

When Aldric Bisset and his family had visited Harold the night before, the young man would not look into their eyes, he just accepted their kind words and sat on his cot silently weeping. Lestrade remembered the elegant man sat down beside Harold put an arm around his shoulders and the rest of the family joined him in noiseless tears, sharing their grief, and what grace they had to offer. It was not hard to see that Genny had taken more than just dark curly hair from her father and family. It was heartening to see that their forgiveness had an effect on the young man. Lestrade was no longer worried about finding him hanging in his cell in the same manner the creature who had taken advantage of his sweet nature had met his end. However, his young life was inescapably detoured for the foreseeable future, clearly Harold Rollins was the last Alister Eads victim.

One might say, so also was Lestrade's career.

He remembered being that curly haired Police Constable with fire in his eyes but not enough body mass to take down a runaway prostitute, young, eager and ambitious. He never said it aloud but he always viewed an office upstairs as the pinnacle, his most fondly wished goal.

That goal remained ever on his mind, even after he accosted a young boy for crossing the street in a dangerous manner and received a bitingly accurate tongue-lashing by the young boy's diminutive older sister. Yes, it was safe to say Clea Ducard won his heart from the first moment he she backed him up against the wall in the middle of a busy Fleet with her temper alone. Together, they had raised children on a humble Met salary, as Lestrade worked his way up the hard way because he did not have the political mind to rise above his station.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes and found his edge, it was that man's intellect he used as an conveyance all the way to this humble office he now occupied.

How was he to know the silent, ill looking well-tanned moustached young veteran he first spied limping at Holmes's side would one day become his dearest friend and changed his entire way of viewing his lifelong vocation?

Lestrade sighed.

_That morally upright bastard, John Watson, this is entirely your fault!_

He had the files arranged on his desk along with the crime scene photos, he had tried to send them on to FitzRoy, but he found he could not. The master case file lay on the stack, it itemized the entire length and breadth of the Red Tear case, and without it, that stack of case files had no connection. That one sheet of manila contained the numbers, the evidence and its location, the crime scene photographs and the names of all involved. Without preamble, Lestrade pulled out his metal wastebasket, lit the file, and then used on a victory cigar someone had left on his desktop. It was not often a man had the opportunity to watch his career literally burn to ash before his eyes, so he puffed and watched as the file disintegrated.

The only thing he kept was a picture of Genny Bisset's body, he felt her family might want it; she was so beautiful and peaceful in that frozen image, captured for all time. Harold created his masterwork with that crime scene photo.

After the fired died, Lestrade pulled a black book out of a drawer.

When he searched for Jeremiah Giordan's identity, he borrowed Gustav Bedlow's private off the record notes about his most controversial experiments. That book did not officially exist so he did not violate any laws concerning confidentiality.

Lestrade made a decision; it was time to stop playing politics.

**---**

He walked out into the celebration trying not to let his mood show.

He was surprised to see Patterson among them; thankfully, he was not revealing more embarrassing facts about Lestrade's early career. He was already living down the revelation about the yellow dress!

They were toasting each other with their coffee cups, but he spied a bottle of Bradstreet's homemade currant wine, from the state of the jug, it was well aged.

Hopkins was the first to see him. "To Lestrade, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, sure to be Superintendant one day!" he called raising his cup. The others followed suit, Bradstreet poured him a generous portion and handed it over so he could join them.

He raised his cup, "To the best group of blokes a man could wish for," Lestrade toasted, his voice broke a bit. They all drank solemnly.

"However, I feel I must inform you, in light of that toast, that my chances for Superintendant have taken a significant blow," Lestrade remarked.

Hopkins read his expression, being the most politically astute he sussed out the implications. "The nobility found you out?" he inquired his features pinched in concern.

Lestrade nodded. "I'm afraid I was not as clever as I thought, but no matter. I do feel a need to inform my wife of this change in my future opportunities, so if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am leaving for the day."

They all looked grave, but Hopkins's eyes showed a bright determination.

"I am going to march right up those stairs and inform Collins of my culpability, you will not suffer this alone!" he declared as he moved to do just that.

"You most certainly will not!" Lestrade's voice rang out like a whip. He closed on the dazed inspector. "You will not throw your career away Hopkins, I knew the risks and I took them upon myself. That goes for anyone of you who has the foolish notion to partake of the cup that has passed to me."

He made sure they all felt the full force of his glare. "You were all under my orders at all times, gentlemen, including Doctor Watson if anyone dare ask."

Hopkins eyes were downcast; Lestrade clasped his shoulder as he passed. "You are our best hope for one of us to make the office, Stanley, one of our own, a Yarder, Superintendant. I will not allow you to endanger that on my behalf. Please, trust me, this is for the best."

Lestrade placed his hat on his head and made for the door so they would not see his glistening eyes.

"Attention, Scotland Yard!" Gregson bellowed.

Lestrade glanced back to see they were all saluting him, he nodded his thanks, "At ease, you pretentious idiots, drink your fill and get back to work, there is a city to protect!"

With that said, he made his exit.

As he reached the street, thankfully free of press vultures that had moved on to fresher carrion, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to see Patterson regarding him with kind eyes. "Can I have a word, Gilsey?"

"A brief one, please, I have business I need to attend to," Lestrade replied.

"It is worth it," Patterson replied cryptically.

Lestrade resigned himself to the conversation. "What is worth it, John?"

Patterson's gaze became distant. "Giving everything you dreamed of, everything you hoped, for the sake of what you know is right."

Lestrade realized that here was a man living under a death sentence, who gave up his career, his very lifestyle to prosecute the most dangerous gang in all of London. If anyone understood him, it was this very man. "I certainly hope so," Lestrade replied.

Patterson nodded his face showing raw emotion, he tipped his hat and made his way in the other direction, his shoulders slumped from the weight of burden renewed.

Lestrade watched him go realizing that he had given much, but certainly not all. He gained a fresh perspective in those moments as he watched his former mentor walk away.

With a greater sense of purpose, he continued on to complete his task.

---

Agatha Weems was packing her things into a box, her desk showing signs of an impending departure when Lestrade knocked on her door way.

She glanced up, he face immediately pinched in anger. "Chief Inspector Lestrade visiting the Times, have you come to gloat, Giles?"

He nodded toward the vacated desk, "Why, are you going somewhere?"

She sighed. "Being a woman in this business, I've had to work harder than the man next to me, be smarter, faster and willing to go further just to maintain the same level," she stated with a sigh. "When I refused to write about Alister Eads's hanging, seeing as I was the only member of the press there and had a scoop, my Editor summarily fired me." She slammed a book into the already full box with an unladylike growl. "I increased circulation, was consistently the most commented on in the letters to the editor, and more often than not found the story first, but one moment I show conscious, and he lets me go without another thought!"

Lestrade laid Gustave Bedlow's private notes on her desk.

Showing the curiosity that had made her such a formidable presence, she picked it up and read the first page. She slapped the book cover closed. "Do you have any idea what this is, Giles?"

He nodded, "The exclusive I promised, just in time for you to make the late edition."

She pursed her lips in thought. "This is privileged patient information; I could really get into trouble for this."

He gave her a letter, hastily written with a fluid flourishing hand. "This is the permission of the last living relative of Jeremiah Giordan, his sister Carla, she is willing to give any testimony to the contents anytime you want to interview her. Her brother was patient J, so if you restrain your efforts to his case alone, you should remain safe."

The glimmer that he used to fear but now was counting on lit up her eyes. "How high does this go?"

He smiled in what he hoped was an evil manner. "All the way to the House of Nobles, dear Missus Weems, it is the story of a lifetime; your editor might be inclined to give you your job back."

She smiled, and it was not a pleasant one. "My former editor can read this story in the Daily Mirror like anyone else, I intend on visiting them next."

Lestrade winced. "You and Benjamin Trollop on the same staff, what have I done?" he lamented.

She laughed.

---

Lestrade sat on a bench in Hyde Park, just off Westminster, listening to the bells.

After he left Agatha's office, he had wandered the streets for an hour or so, he needed to go home to Clea, she would welcome him with open arms, but before hand, he needed to shake the vestiges of his gloom. He would not carry this dire depression home to his dear wife if he could help it.

Seemingly, nothing he did improved his countenance, he had wandered his first beat as an over eager PC. He visited some of his biggest triumphs, most of them involving Sherlock Holmes. He thought of visiting Watson, who was his only true friend outside of the Yard, but decided that he did not want to darken that man's door with his mood.

Therefore, here he sat, in Hyde Park, at a place with some significance to him.

This bench was the place where he asked Clea for her hand in marriage on their second date. She gave him a look he came to know very well. Half incredulity, half affection with a hint of being appalled at his forward manner, but with a smile made his heart race.

"You wife knows you well."

Watson settled into a seat across from him crossing his legs in an insouciant manner.

Lestrade had to give Watson another look. His friend was dressed to the nines, obviously for a night out, complete with dinner attire.** (10)**

"Do you always attire for high society when you are hunting someone down?" Lestrade quipped.

Watson gave him that lopsided grin. "I intended to stay home this evening and catch up on patient files, but I was informed by a telegram from a certain Missus Giordan that someone had promised that I would accompany her to repay a favour. I found that this was news to me. Tell me, dear Lestrade, how many other eligible ladies have you bought favours from with promises of my patronage?"

Lestrade shrugged. "You use what is available to barter."

"Is trading your friend's services not a form of prostitution?" Watson remarked in a chiding tone.

"I apologize, I know escorting a beautiful lady for dinner and most likely some other artistic entertainment is such a vile chore for you!" Lestrade shot back.

Watson rolled his eyes as if it were a great imposition. "As long as you received proper compensation, I suppose I can stand one evening of such dreariness."

"I weep for your discomfort," Lestrade quoted with a grin.

Watson shot him the look he deserved.

They sat in a comfortable silence, one that had become unique to their association.

"I suppose I am called upon to say, "there, there," or some such rubbish," Watson remarked his voice tinted by bother.

Lestrade shook his head with a rueful expression. "Oh no, dear Doctor, I would not wish you to put yourself out."

Watson held out his hand to Lestrade, grasped without hesitation, their eyes met, brown into hazel. No words could have possibly given the comfort of seeing the respect in John Watson's eyes. With a silent nod, the man rose to leave.

"Get yourself home, Giles and stop being an imbecile, Clea's words, not mine." He remarked with a chuckle.

Lestrade nodded as he stood. "Is your escort taking the night off?"

Watson sighed, "Oh no, he is around here somewhere." Watson glanced over at a large tree just beyond them. "Are you going to skulk there all day, or come along?" he called.

Mayweather slipped out and tipped his hat to Lestrade as he followed Watson down the path.

Lestrade watched them go for a moment, then headed where he should have already been hours ago.

Home.

---

**Two Weeks Later Humble Cottage South Side of London...**

It was on the air tonight, John Patterson decided. He felt it in his bones.

He was flipping through his wifes's journal once again, feeling her presence in those carefully written pages. He glanced up at their portrait taken just before Sherlock Holmes came to his door informing him that the Milverton case was quite a bit more significant than he first believed.

He had both blessed and cursed that day many times over the intervening interval.

He still had a bullet lodged in his chest after an assassination attempt while he was out walking with his wife one evening, the grievous wound that retired him from the Yard. He enjoyed being with Lestrade and the boys one last time for that Eads case, it felt like old times.

He rested his head against the top slat of the rocking chair and closed his eyes; he could almost hear his Melanie calling for him.

A sudden noise in the back alley caused him to awake; he reached for his revolver, but stayed his hand.

It was time to let it go, his affairs were in order, his wife was waiting, he left it were it lay and went to the back door.

---

**Later...Outside of the Diogenes Club**

Guarding the door to the Diogenes Club was boring work, but they remained ever vigilant. They all felt it in their bones that there was a battle coming, accounts to settle, so they studied the foggy night with careful eyes.

There was an odd noise, similar to a wet rotting cantaloupe dropped on a sidewalk.

"Pierce, did you hear that?" said one of the guards.

"Pierce?"

---

**Same Night...Tankerville Gentleman's Club**

They all sat around the table, deep into their hands. Cards laid and picked up with little comment, this was no social event, this was gambling.

The youngest at the table, a man of obvious breeding and sophistication laid down his hand in triumph.

An old warhorse of a man leaned back and let out a sigh of exasperation. "I know you are cheating, Ronald Adair, but I cannot guess how."

Adair smiled, politely, as he did all things. "I apologize if I somehow seem duplicitous; I assure you I have never had a run of luck like this in my life to date."

They all laughed good-naturedly.

Into this frivolity walked Colonel Moran.

He sat and nodded at his erstwhile partner, Adair returned his acknowledgement with a warm smile.

"I am sorry gentlemen for my tardiness, I had some business, that I have been putting off far too long, to attend to."

The man who had accused is partner of cheating let out a snort. "You have not missed much; your partner in crime has continued his robbery."

Moran's yellow eyes sparkled with a hidden amusement. "Well let's hope his run of luck continues for a little while longer at least." He reached for the cards intending to deal; at the crook of his thumb was a small smear of machine oil.

---

**Montpellier, France**

He sat at the desk perusing the items, his sharp mind running through implications and connections at an astonishing speed, as he made plans in his notebook.

The first items where two newspaper articles.

_**Murder of Ex-Scotland Yard Inspector Patterson Still Unsolved**_

_**Diogenes Club Guard Assassinated By Method Unknown**_

_The first shots, fired..._

He circled one sentence that was in both articles, it would have seemed insignificant to any other man, but it had worlds of importance to this one.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, and Police Surgeon Doctor John Watson were at both scenes, but refused comment at this time."

He read and reread those words with a bemused smile.

One other item on the desktop caught his eye. It was a well-crumpled telegram accidentally wadded in his excitement.

IT IS NEARLY TIME...STOP...PREPARE...STOP...M...STOP

He smoothed out an advertisement page from a local paper:

**Musée de Cires de Paris**

He made another notation in the cluttered notebook.

He had so much to accomplish in so little time, it was not everyday a man attempts resurrection after all.

**To Be Concluded in Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5**

**One Last War**

* * *

**Story Notes:** For those of you who are wondering...yes that is Sherlock Holmes.

**Musée de Cires de Paris: **is The Waxwork Museum of Paris

Any other questions feel free to ask.

******Bart**

******(10) **Watson in the Park check it out in the profile, man I hope somebody is because I work hard on these screen caps!******  
**


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